


Don't Need Ribbons and Bows to Cure My Woes

by theorchardofbones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Mortal, Cas's overbearing coworkers, Christmas fic, Chronically Ill Meg Masters, Fluff, M/M, Meg being a stubborn wingman, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sick Dean Winchester, fake dating au, oblivious idiots in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: After a messy breakup, Castiel has been single for the past five years — and he's just fine with that.The problem is, nobody else seems to have got the memo that he doesn't need help getting a date, and now he's making up some tall tale about a boyfriend, and suddenly everybody wants to meet the mystery guy.When Dean steps in to play the role of his fake boyfriend — after a handful of misunderstandings — it seems like maybe things are going to be all right. It's just one night, the office Christmas party, and then the two of them can go their separate ways.Except, it's never really that easy, as both of them are about to find out.
Relationships: Castiel & Meg Masters, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jo Harvelle & Dean Winchester
Comments: 49
Kudos: 71





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! This is my first time writing for SPN, so I hope I've got these boys down. I hadn't really planned on breaking into the fandom with fluff, but then Christmas fever took over and... *sigh*. Here we are.

The office Christmas party — sorry, the  _ multi-denominational holiday soiree, _ per the memo sent around by HR — is in three days.

Castiel Novak doesn’t have a date, and he might just be screwed.

The barista seems oblivious to his plight as he hands over Castiel’s flat white, and the double-camera latte for Meg. The man is conventionally attractive, maybe just a few years shy of Castiel’s age, and he flashes a warm smile as he slots the two paper cups into a cardboard carrier, setting it beside Castiel’s scone.

‘Enjoy,’ he says, cheerfully.

Castiel gives a bemused nod by way of answer. Picking up his order, he turns and sweeps through the coffee shop to the table Meg picked out.

It’s not like it would be the first time he showed up stag to an office function, but this year is different. Between Anna pestering him back in February to sign up for the Valentine Matchmaker —  _ ‘C’mon, it’s for a good cause!’ _ — or Gabriel unsubtly nudging him to get the IT guy’s number, it’s pretty obvious that Castiel’s workmates are starting to see him as a lost cause.

Maybe they’re right; maybe they’re not. It doesn’t really matter to him, when he’s been perfectly content with his life as a bachelor, owing nothing to anyone. Whether it has anything to do with his last relationship falling to tatters before his eyes is of little consequence.

The point is, Castiel is fine being single.  _ More _ than fine. And showing up alone to yet another multi-denominational holiday soiree would be a-okay, if not for the fact that he told Anna in a moment of panic that actually, he  _ has _ a boyfriend and no, he  _ won’t _ be needing her to set him up with her cute cousin, thank you very much.

He does not have a boyfriend. He doesn’t even have a human male in his life with whom he is neither related to, nor works with. And now, his coworkers are pestering him to bring his  _ better half _ along, since they’ve heard next to nothing about him.

So yes, he’s screwed. Possibly cosmically.

‘Y’know,’ Meg says, warming her hands against her cup after Castiel hands it to her. ‘You  _ could _ always say you broke up. That fixes the no-date problem,  _ and _ the fake-boyfriend problem.’

She sits back somewhat smugly in her seat, lifting the coffee cup to her lips.

If it were that easy, Castiel would have tried it already. He’s got enough heat on him as it is, with everybody dying to meet the mystery boyfriend. The  _ last _ thing he needs is a pity party when everybody thinks he’s newly-single.

He shakes his head. Idly, he picks at his scone, hardly in the mood to eat it anymore. It’s buttery, still warm. It crumbles beneath his touch.

With a sigh, he wipes his fingers off on a napkin.

‘If I tell them we broke up, they’ll start trying to set me up with somebody before long. I’ll just… I’ll tell them he can’t make it.’

Meg gives him a look — the we’ve-known-each-other-too-long-and-I-see-right-through-your-bullshit one — and jabs an accusing finger into the air in his direction.

‘Your problem isn’t that you can’t get a date, Clarence. I’m starting to think it’s that you’re scared to try.’

Before Castiel can even open his mouth to give a rebuttal, Meg’s sitting forward in her seat to continue her accusations.

‘Think about it,’ she says. ‘You’ve been single, what, five years now? When was the last time you went on a date?’

Embarrassingly, it does take Castiel a moment or two to think back. It’s not as if he’s been inundated with offers.

After a moment, he perks up and snaps his fingers triumphantly.

‘Ethan,’ he says. ‘The one with the cat photos on his phone.’

‘That was  _ two _ years ago. And you didn’t even realise your brother was setting you up!’

Castiel cringes despite himself. He’d  _ thought _ it was just dinner with Jimmy and his wife, but they’d invited a friend along, too — and even with how nice and friendly he’d been, how he’d spent most of the evening trying to nudge Castiel into conversation, Castiel hadn’t realised it was supposed to be a blind date until the end of the night when the guy had walked him to his car and tried to kiss him. Castiel had panicked, lurching into his car and pretending he hadn’t noticed.

Not his finest moment.

‘I still don’t see what the problem was,’ Meg says, picking at her nail polish. ‘You said he was nice, right?’

Castiel can feel his jaw tensing up.

‘I don’t like being taken by surprise. You know that.’

Meg shrugs, but she doesn’t seem all that convinced. Maybe she’ll drop it.

He knows he’s not that lucky.

‘What about that guy? He’s cute.’

She nods toward the counter. Castiel has no interest in playing along, but still curiosity drags his gaze over.

It’s not quite lunchtime, so the place is devoid of the usual rush-hour stream of patrons that make it hard to get a seat indoors. Behind the counter, the two baristas stand chatting. Castiel recognises both of them — he and Meg come here often enough that they could be considered regulars, and it’s usually one or the other of the two serving.

One is a perky blonde girl whose voice always seems to drip with sarcasm over the simplest interactions. Castiel can never quite tell if he’s being mocked with her. The other is a tall man, maybe a few years younger than Castiel. He’s nice — sometimes he gives Castiel a free cookie or muffin when things are quiet. Often, he’ll try to strike up a conversation about mundane things like the weather, but Castiel rarely knows how to react beyond a polite ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He’s never been good at small talk.

With a lurch, Castiel realises that he’s the one Meg is referring to. With an exasperated sigh, he turns his gaze back onto her.

‘I’m not asking out some stranger,’ he says, sharply. ‘He’s probably not even into men.’

Meg arches one of her eyebrows conspiratorially.

‘No straight man spends that much time on personal grooming.’

Castiel doesn’t dignify that with a response. He looks pointedly toward the window, watching cars roll by along the street outside, and he doesn’t meet Meg’s eye even when he can feel her gaze burning into him.

‘Whoops,’ she says suddenly. And then, not unlike a cat dislodging a priceless vase from a shelf, she tips over her drink.

Castiel looks on in a stupor, and it takes a little too long for him to register that the liquid is rolling across the table towards him. He jumps to his feet and grabs a handful of napkins, but there’s just too much spilling over the surface of the table to stem the flow.

Next thing, Meg is standing up, waving towards the counter at the back of the shop.

‘Could we get a hand here?’

She flags down the baristas, and with mounting dismay Castiel realises that the man is the one who springs to action — but he doesn’t have time to worry about it, as the coffee rolls off the table and into his lap. The dark liquid stands out against the cream fabric. He hopes it’ll come out; there’s not much he can do about it now.

For now, he busies himself doing what he can to clean up the mess, grabbing handfuls of napkins to mop up the spill. He’s more worried about staining the colourful mosaic pattern on the tabletop.

He’s diligently blotting at the sand-coloured grout between the little tiles when the barista arrives with a rag in his hand and a patient smile on his face.

‘Happens all the time, ma’am,’ the barista says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

If there’s any indignity to mopping up patrons’ spills, the barista seems unperturbed. If anything, he appears happy to help out, and sets to work cleaning up what Castiel couldn’t fix.

Meg lifts herself onto her stool. Over the hill of the barista’s back where he leans over the table, she gives Castiel a meaningful look. When he doesn’t catch on right away, she mouths something. He can’t make out the words.

‘What?’ Castiel says.

The barista looks up. His eyes land on Castiel; up close, Castiel can see they’re a bright, cool green.

‘Huh?’

Castiel presses his lips together. On the barista’s other side, Meg is trying — and failing — to stifle a laugh.

‘Nothing,’ Castiel says, hurriedly.

Once the table is shiny and clean, the barista straightens up and takes a step back.

‘All good,’ he says. ‘I’ll go grab you another drink, ma’am. Double-caramel, right?’

‘I’ll pay for it—’ Castiel starts to say, but the barista cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

‘On the house. These tables are a little wobbly — I keep telling my manager we need to get ‘em fixed.’

And then he’s gone.

Castiel shoots Meg what he hopes is a suitably hostile look. 

‘Ask him for his number when he comes back,’ she says, nudging him with her foot beneath the table.

Castiel gapes.  _ That _ was what this whole stunt was about?

‘I’m not asking for his number—’

‘Come on, Cas. He’s sweet on you!’

Castiel breathes in and out, slow and measured. It’s getting very tempting to cut their lunch date short. 

‘He’s not  _ sweet _ on me, Meg, he’s just… showing good customer service.’

Across from him, Meg throws her eyes skyward.

‘Good customer service,’ she says, sardonically. ‘Right. That’s why he draws all that stuff on the top of your drinks and gives you free cookies all the time.’

Opening his mouth to protest, Castiel finds his voice sticking in his throat. Now that she mentions it, the art in his drinks has been gradually shifting from the standard tulip to things like dogs and daisies. He looks down at his barely-touched coffee. There’s an imprint in the foam where his lips left their mark, but the picture is mostly intact; today, it’s a smiley face.

‘I’m sure he does that for everyone,’ he protests. ‘He’s just being nice.’

Meg leans towards him, eyebrows arch and lips curled into a knowing smile.

‘He’s never done it for me, Clarence.’

Slumping back into his chair, Castiel can feel his stomach lurching around unpleasantly. If nothing else, he’d been content in the knowledge that he was a gay man living in an overwhelmingly straight part of town, with minimal chance of running into anyone that might be interested in him. Now that the possibility of someone actually being ‘sweet on him’ is there, he’s not sure how to feel.

Flattered, sure. But it’s not like he’s even looking for somebody to date.

‘One double-caramel latte.’

The barista is back, setting a cup down in front of Meg. When Castiel’s eyes flit — unconsciously, out of his control — toward the drink, he sees a plain old tulip drawn into the foam on top.

His stomach flips again.

‘Need anything else?’ the barista asks, looking from Meg to Castiel.

Castiel shakes his head.

‘Actually, there  _ is _ something.’

He shoots Meg a look, but she’s doing her best to avoid meeting his eye, and her gaze is trained upwards toward the barista with something of a simpering smile on her lips.

‘Are you free this Saturday?’

Castiel groans and covers his eyes — not before he can see the look of surprise flash across the barista’s face.

‘Uh, I mean,’ the man says. ‘I guess it depends.’

‘What if my friend here was the one asking?’

Castiel can feel the life draining out of him, slowly but surely. He lowers his hand and looks up, and the barista’s watching him, and Castiel really wishes the ground would just open up and swallow him.

‘Ignore her,’ Castiel says. ‘She hasn’t had her daily caffeine yet—’

A pain shoots through his leg as Meg gives him a solid kick.

‘What my socially-challenged friend  _ means _ to say—’ Meg pauses to swirl the pad of a finger through the foam of her drink, and licks it off ‘—is he’s looking for a date for his office Christmas party this weekend, and he thought you might like to come along.’

There’s the look on the barista’s face, the wide eyes and parted lips, and Castiel braces himself for the inevitable—

‘I mean, I haven’t had somebody get their friend to ask me out since I was in ninth grade,’ the barista says, ‘but yeah, I’d like that.’

Castiel realises, distantly, that the barista’s eyes are on him. He’s smiling now, smiling at  _ Castiel, _ and this whole thing is so ridiculous that Castiel can’t even be sure it’s really happening.

‘It’s— It’s silly,’ he falters, shaking his head. ‘It’s not even really a  _ date—’ _

Another kick under the table. Castiel has to bite his lip to keep from shouting out.

‘Great,’ Meg interjects, cheerfully. ‘Clarence, give the nice man your number.’

The barista’s lips curl. Something about the shape of them, the Cupid’s bow, makes Castiel’s stomach flutter treacherously. 

‘Clarence?’

Castiel sends a dark look in Meg’s direction, then turns his glance back to the barista.

‘Castiel,’ he says. ‘My name’s Castiel.’

A hand juts out towards him, ready for him to shake. After a moment, he takes it.

‘Dean,’ the barista says.

_ Dean. _ Castiel plays the name around in his head, looking up into the man’s open, smiling face. The corners of his eyes are crinkled; his nose and cheeks are awash with freckles.

Quickly, Castiel looks away.


	2. Dean

‘What was  _ that _ about?’

Jo can barely contain herself when Dean returns. It’s a small mercy that she manages to keep her voice down.

Even if she didn’t, though, Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. There’s a grin pulling at his mouth, and he’s got a date.

‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ he says, making a chopping motion against his throat to keep her quiet. ‘Wait till they’re gone, all right?’

It’s not like he’s  _ embarrassed _ about the whole thing, but it’s still a little bit goofy how it happened — Castiel’s friend asking him out for him, the weird exchange going on between them. Dean had half-expected the guy to tell him it was all some stupid in-joke, but then he’d given his number and taken Dean’s down in his own phone, his cheeks burning a dull red all the while.

The friends stay at their table for the next twenty minutes or so, and Castiel picks at his scone, and makes what seems to be a valiant effort at avoiding looking over in Dean’s direction. Just as he goes to leave, though, his friend smacks him, and he turns and gives Dean a small wave. Dean returns it with gusto.

Once the two of them are gone, Dean turns to Jo.

‘Trench Coat asked me out,’ he says.

Jo’s eyebrows rise to a single point in her forehead. She actually looks a little impressed.

‘Well damn, Winchester. Guess you didn’t have to worry about making the first move after all.’

Dean grabs a rag and swats at her, but she lithely dodges out of the way.

He hadn’t even thought Trench Coat —  _ Castiel _ — swung that way, given how unreceptive he’s always been to Dean’s various attempts at flirting with him. He always seems to be in such a hurry, too, rushing to get his coffee, lost in conversation with his friend, scurrying back off to work when their drinks are gone.

Of all the ways he’d expected to land a date with the dude, this was  _ not _ how he’d thought it would play out.

‘It was weird. His  _ friend _ asked me out for him.’

‘He got his  _ friend _ to do it?’ Jo says, wrinkling her nose. ‘Ugh, amateur.’

Dean can’t help letting out a little laugh. Sure, it was weird, but maybe there’s a part of it that was kind of endearing. Like he was too shy to do it himself.

It’s not like Dean can say a whole lot. He’s been harbouring this crush for a while now, and he’d been no closer to working up the courage to say  _ Hey, wanna grab a coffee someplace else? _ when Castiel had been the one to overcome that hurdle first. Through his friend, that is.

‘I don’t know,’ he murmurs. He looks towards the door, even though Castiel and his friend are long gone. ‘He seems pretty awkward. You sayin’ you wouldn’t ask a dude out for me if I couldn’t work up the courage?’

Jo makes a gagging face, thrusting her fingers towards her mouth.

* * *

The door of the coffee shop jingles — a patron. They can gossip more later. The longer he has to dwell on it, the more the whole thing feels funky. For starters, even after Castiel’s friend asked him out, the man himself hadn’t seemed particularly enthused about the whole thing. There’s still a part of Dean that can’t help but worry if the rug’s about to get pulled out from under him.

It’s always been a little like that, though — being a dude who’s into dudes. Considering that he’s only really been  _ out _ in any sense of the word for the past few years, he’s still learning to navigate all of it. Flirtation. Invitation. Intimacy.

The whole thing’s a lot less complicated when he’s the one with the reins.

It’s four hours since his shift ended, and he’s staring up at the ceiling of his apartment wondering if now is too early to text Castiel about their date. His friend had said it was this weekend — which doesn’t leave Dean a whole lot of time to prepare. What if it’s far away? What if there’s like a dress code, and he needs to buy something to wear in a hurry?

And come to think of it, what’s with the whole office Christmas party, anyways? Dean can’t say it’s the venue he would’ve picked for a first date.

He picks up his phone and taps through to the call screen. There’s Castiel’s number, saved in the contacts; he made the guy spell the name out so he got it right, since it’s such an odd one. He hasn’t even checked if it’s legit yet, and he doesn’t know if he’s scared to find out he was given a fake number, or scared that it’s real and he’ll actually wind up talking to the guy.

‘C’mon, Winchester, you’re not a kid anymore. Time to man up.’

He taps the number, and the list of actions pops up,  _ Call Contact _ being at the very top. His thumb hovers over the words for a long while until he finally huffs and tosses his phone aside.

If Castiel wanted to get in touch with the details, he probably would’ve by now. Maybe his friend just roped him into it and he’s having second thoughts now; in that case, Dean’s not gonna be the one to come crawling to him.

But then… Castiel hadn’t even been able to ask Dean out himself, so maybe he’s got crippling anxiety or some shit. Maybe he’s sitting at home  _ right now _ agonising over whether to make the call. Maybe he’s waiting for Dean to be the one to do it first.

This is starting to get ridiculous. Rolling his eyes — at the situation, at himself — Dean grabs his phone and takes the plunge. It starts ringing after a moment, so it’s a real number. Whether it actually belongs to Castiel remains to be seen as it rings, and rings, and rings…

_ ‘This is Castiel. I’m not available to take your call. Leave a message at the tone.’ _

The answering message is blunt, perfunctory. It’s everything Dean probably would have expected from the dude, but when he’d been anticipating speaking to him personally, it’s a little disappointing. Like being met with a brick wall.

He hangs up before it gets to the beep.

Whatever. Castiel is probably just busy — he always comes into Harvelle’s in business clothes and that ridiculous trench coat, no matter what the weather, so he must work for one of the many firms in the city. There’s every chance that he’s working late. Or he’s just not answering calls. Which is fine, too.

He leaves the phone on the bed, and heads out into the main room of the apartment. It’s a tiny place, but he doesn’t have to share it with anybody, and it’s  _ his _ space. It’s a damn sight better than the dump he was sharing with some of his friends, fresh out of high school, when he’d been flipping burgers in Lawrence to make ends meet.

There’s beer in the fridge, and not much else. He makes a mental note to grab some groceries tomorrow — ‘dinner’ was a basket of day-old croissants from Harvelle’s that he wolfed down when he got in.

For now, he helps himself to a beer, heads for the couch, and slumps into it to watch something mindless for the rest of the evening.

* * *

The text comes when he’s washing up for bed. Honestly, he’d mostly managed to make himself forget about the whole thing, even if Castiel kept popping into his head from time to time. At the sound of the notification, though, it’s all he can do not to throw his toothbrush aside to check the message.

_ I’m sorry I didn’t answer earlier. I was otherwise occupied. I presume you were getting in touch to hash out the details of our date… _

Dean grins to himself through a mouthful of toothpaste. On anybody else, the stiff, formal way that Castiel speaks would probably be a turn-off, but something about him just makes it adorable.

_...however I have a confession to make. It was disingenuous for my friend to imply that I meant to ask you out on a date. The truth is, I got myself into something of a situation with my colleagues at work, and they were under the impression that I would be bringing my boyfriend to the office party this weekend… _

Dean pauses and sets the phone aside to spit, although his eyes are glued to the screen all the while. The word  _ boyfriend _ makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly, and it seems Castiel isn’t even nearly done explaining himself. The text is almost as long as an email.

_...Unfortunately, as I do not have a boyfriend, I found myself in something of a predicament. My friend thought that she was being helpful in asking you to come with me, but I can’t help feeling as though I’ve led you on. I’m sorry. _

Dean stares at the text. So, Castiel  _ wasn’t _ asking him out — he was looking for somebody to pretend to be his boyfriend, to save face in front of his coworkers?

Irritation wells up inside of him. After a handful of encounters with guys who were happy to experiment with him but kick him out the door when things started to get into relationship territory — not to mention the ones who were afraid to even be seen standing next to him, lest somebody find out — he’s more than a little sick of dudes screwing him around.

He starts to tap out an angry reply to that effect, and he’s just about to hit send when he hesitates. Sure, Castiel might have led him on, but was it really his fault? It was his friend who asked Dean out, after all.

He sighs and sets his phone down on the counter beside the sink. Grabbing his toothbrush again, he shoves it into his mouth.

All he has to do is text Castiel and say it’s all good. Just a misunderstanding, no hard feelings. No, he hasn’t been harbouring a crush for months now. No, he hasn’t been giddy all day about the prospect of an actual date with the cute guy in the trench coat who’s always so stern and serious until sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him smiling and it’s like the whole world lights up— 

Crap. Dean’s got it bad.

He mulls it over as he finishes up, and the text sits unanswered on his phone in the pocket of his pyjamas, the slight warmth of it bleeding into his leg. He could say no-harm-done, sure, but would it really be so bad if he played along? He’d be doing Castiel a favour, and maybe along the way they could actually get to know each other a little. Worst case scenario, Dean figures out that actually, he’s not that into Castiel, and they go their separate ways.

But then, if spending that time together just makes Dean like him  _ more, _ and Castiel has no interest in actually pursuing anything…

He puts off thinking about it as he shuts off the lights and heads for his room. There’s nothing to say he has to answer Castiel right away, or even at all; the misunderstanding was on  _ Castiel’s _ end and not  _ his, _ so he doesn’t exactly owe the guy a response.

That thought doesn’t get a whole lot of mileage. He makes it ten minutes in bed before he picks up his phone and finds the angry reply he typed out earlier still waiting for him to send.

Sighing, he presses his thumb down on the  _ delete _ key and watches the words vanish, letter-by-letter. For a while he just sits and looks at the empty reply window, his eyes flitting up to Castiel’s message and the  _ I’m sorry _ at the end.

This is a bad idea. A terrible one, really. But he does it anyway.

_ Hey, no worries. Meddling friends, am I right? You still need somebody to play the fake boyfriend? I took a couple acting classes in college. _

He hits send before he can second-guess himself. He regrets it immediately, of course.

Castiel’s reply comes back within minutes.

_ I’m not sure I could ask you to do that, not after leading you on. _

Dean huffs out a laugh in spite of himself. At least he’s a gentleman.

_ Nah, it’s no big deal. Seriously. I mean, there’ll be free food, right? _

He tries not to wonder what Castiel is doing while he waits for a reply. Tries not to imagine him lying in bed, head cradled in his arm, eyes heavy-lidded with the promise of sleep.

_ Yes, there will be free food. Are you so easily bought? _

The comment stings at Dean. He’d thought he was doing the guy a favour.

And then it hits him — this is Castiel’s attempt at a joke.

_ Throw in a drink and you’ve got yourself a deal. _

Barely moments pass before Castiel’s reply pops in.

_ Deal. _

* * *

They spent a little while working out the details, and even though most of it could have been done over the phone, Dean found himself inviting Castiel out for drinks to get to know each other better, just to help make things believable.

It’s only really now, as he’s getting ready after work, that he realises he probably had ulterior motives in mind.

‘Y’know, I would’ve told him where to go. Ugh, not that one.’

Jo sits cross-legged on the kitchen counter, a beer cradled in her hands. With no plans of her own tonight, she’s opted to live vicariously through Dean, which for now means that she’s helping him get ready for the pre-office-party preparatory drinks.

Dean looks down at the shirt he’s wearing, holding his arms out wide.

‘Why not?’ he protests. ‘I like this one.’

When he looks up, he catches Jo mid-eyeroll.

‘That’s the problem. You wear it all the time. When’s the last time you washed that thing?’

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but after a beat he pauses to pluck at the edge of the fabric and sniffs at it experimentally.  _ Phew. _ Maybe Jo has a point.

He pulls the shirt off and tosses the flannel onto the floor by the couch. He’ll wash it… eventually. For now, he’s got more important things to think about. Like dressing to impress Castiel, on their not-date.

When he comes out again, he’s wearing a black dress shirt. The last time he wore it, he was seeing a sous-chef who also happened to be so far in the closet he made sure to take Dean places nobody would recognise him. Jo takes one look at the shirt and gives a shake of her head.

‘Too fancy.’

With a huff, she hops down from the counter, sets down her beer, and marches toward Dean’s bedroom.

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Watch and learn.’

She’s gone for just a few minutes. When she returns, she has a plain black tee and a leather jacket in her hands. She thrusts them both against Dean’s chest with a knowing quirk of her eyebrow.

Dean shoots her a bemused look.

‘Isn’t this a little… casual?’

‘Are you kidding me? One look at you and he’s not gonna know what hit him.’

Dean throws his eyes to the sky, but he elects to trust her instincts. They’ve known each other since high school and she’s always had his back — even through the awkward phase where he was utterly in denial about being into guys, and she seemed to know him better than he knew himself. He knows he can count on her.

He pulls off his grey tee, sprays himself with a conservative amount of deodorant and cologne, and tugs the black tee over his head. The jacket hasn’t seen much use of late, but it’s old and the leather is soft and worn. It slips over him like a second skin.

After a moment of preening at the mirror, adjusting his hair and making sure that his stubble is in check, he heads out of his room.

Jo gives him an appraising look. When she’s done, she gives an impressed nod.

‘Looking good, Winchester. You ready to go knock this not-date out of the park?’

‘Hell yeah,’ Dean says.

The squirming feeling in his gut says otherwise.

* * *

The name of the place — McSwiggans — is written across the glass in gilded letters. If not for the visual clue, he’d be pretty sure he was at the wrong place. From the name alone, Dean had been expecting an Irish bar; this is an up-market gastropub, far from the casual venue he was anticipating.

He wonders if maybe he would’ve been better off in the fancy shirt after all, but as he stalls outside the window, his eyes slide over the patrons inside the pub and land, inexorably, on Castiel.

He’s out of his trench coat for once, instead wearing a blue sweater which looks like it’s made of something soft and expensive, like cashmere. Sitting at the bar with his back turned toward the window, his face is hidden from Dean, but he’s nursing a crystal glass in his hands, which means he already got started. Maybe that’s a good thing; maybe it’ll help loosen him up a little.

Dean takes a minute to primp at the window, doing one last once-over of his reflection, then heads for the door.

Soft music streams into the place, but he can’t quite pick up on it over the sounds of polite chatter and clinking cutlery. Still, it’s a nice sort of ambient sound, like white noise. The lighting, too, is subtle — a glittering modern fixture illuminates the bar itself, but the seating area is lit up by soft lamps fitted with stained-glass shades.

It’s pretty busy, with many of the patrons still dining. The bar, at least, is mostly unoccupied. Castiel sits at the edge of it, closest to the door, and he lazily scrolls through his phone while he sips from his drink.

His shoulders are hunched slightly over the bar, his head angled downward over his phone. One leg is folded neatly over the other. From this angle, Dean can see the spray of dark stubble across his angular jaw.

He looks good.  _ Real _ good. Dean wonders, fleetingly, if he smells nice too — before promptly nipping that thought in the bud.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen the guy just sitting like this, nowhere to be. If he’s not with his friend — Meg, if Dean remembers from their texts the other night — he’s usually in a rush to get back to work. Now, it’s like he’s stopped to take a rare breath, and Dean’s almost reluctant to break him out of it.

But he has to.

‘Castiel.’

He waves as he approaches, and Castiel abruptly looks up, his eyes going wide as if he’s been caught by surprise. When his glance lands on Dean it softens somewhat, and his lips twitch into a polite smile.

‘Dean. I’m glad you found the place okay.’

Dean crosses the distance between them, and Castiel gets up to greet him, hand outstretched towards him. If this were a date, Castiel would probably rest a hand on Dean’s arm and kiss him on the cheek. It takes Dean a moment to realise he’s offering his hand to  _ shake. _

‘Uh, yeah.’ Dean can feel his ears going pink as Castiel grips his hand firmly. ‘Your directions were perfect, so.’

Castiel gives a nod. His hand slips free of Dean’s, and a moment later he’s sitting back down again, motioning to the stool beside him.

Dean slides onto the seat. It’s plush and comfortable, not like the threadbare stools he’s used to at his local bar. He doubts this is the sort of place that offers peanuts and cheap beer.

‘What are you having?’ Castiel asks. His eyes are on Dean, but he’s already waving down the bartender.

For a moment, Dean can’t even think of what to ask for. His usual spot doesn’t take cards, so he has a handful of cash on him, but not enough to cover what this place probably charges. If he asks for something low-budget, Castiel might think he’s a cheapskate. But then, the guy knows he works as a barista. He probably has to realise he’s not exactly rolling in money.

Castiel’s still waiting, lips parted slightly. They’re a soft pink, like— well, it doesn’t matter what they’re like, because this isn’t a date.

Gruffly, Dean clears his throat.

‘I’ll take a Sol.’

He rests his elbows on the bartop and looks around, eyes roving over the assortment of liquors on the shelves behind the bar. There are framed photos dotted between the bottles, some of them of scenic landscapes of rolling hills, others of people. Dean spots a guy in one of them who looks naggingly familiar, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

‘You don’t have to come tomorrow. If it’s too much trouble.’

Castiel’s voice drags Dean back to him, and he shifts in his seat to look at him. His lips are pursed, his brow pulled into a frown, like he’s expecting Dean to just up and take the out — and maybe Dean should, if he had even a lick of sense, but even as he finds himself thinking that, his mouth has other ideas.

‘Nah, it’s cool, honestly,’ he says. ‘Whenever there’s free food, I’m in it for the long haul.’

Internally, he winces. He’s starting to sound like a babbling idiot, and normally he’s  _ fine _ when he’s making small talk — excels at it, even — but he’s wading into uncharted waters here, being that he’s getting ready to play fake boyfriend to a guy that actually, he’s got a thing for.

He clears his throat again, and why is it so dry anyways? When his drink shows up, he helps himself to a liberal gulp of it.

‘So, uh.’ He swallows thickly, scratching at his jaw with a knuckle. ‘I guess if I’m gonna pull this off, we should figure out a cover story or something. Y’know, uh. How long we’ve been together.’

For a while, Castiel pauses to think, his brow knitted in thought.

‘I suppose we could get away with things being relatively new. It would make sense that we don’t know each other all that well. A month or two, maybe?’

Dean nods. Wrapping his fingers around his drink, he slides them idly over the label hugging the bottle.

‘A couple months. Cool. So how’d we meet?’

‘At Harvelle’s? We could stick relatively close to the truth.’

Thoughtfully, Dean leans his weight on his elbow and studies Castiel, considering him for a while. They can probably leave the part out about Meg being the one to set them up.

‘I asked you out,’ he says, and he feels a small smile tugging at his lips at the thought of it. ‘I just finished my shift and I was headed out, but it was raining so I was waiting it out at the door. You let me share your umbrella. We got a cab together.’

A muscle ripples at Castiel’s jaw. Good or bad, Dean can’t quite tell.

‘That’s… detailed,’ he says slowly.

Dean gnaws at his lip. It’s not exactly far from the truth, in a way; a couple months back, the city got hit with a downpour out of the blue, and Dean had been waiting at the door for the rain to die down when Castiel had politely excused himself to get past. Dean had watched him go with his umbrella, watched him flag down a car. He’d wondered then, idly, what Castiel would have said if he’d hopped into the cab, too.

It’s the sort of meet-cute that only happens in romcoms, and if Dean knows anything, it’s that his life is anything  _ but _ a romcom.

‘Eh.’ He shrugs. ‘Couples remember all the little shit, right? It’s romantic.’

Wordless, Castiel lifts his drink to his lips and takes a sip.

The silence hangs over them, thick and heavy, and Dean can’t help but wonder if he messed up — if he should’ve picked something farther from the truth. If he’s not careful, Castiel might catch on that Dean is  _ actually _ into him.

‘Uh, so.’ He clears his throat — again — and lets his gaze wander back toward the liquor bottles lined up like toy soldiers behind the bar. ‘First date. Did we come here?’

‘You asked me out,’ Castiel says. ‘You would have picked the place.’

‘Oh. Right.’

This plan is starting to seem worse as time goes by. Dean can’t afford to bring somebody like Castiel on fancy dates to places like this — even with the sous-chef, it was always Dean being treated, like he was some kind of sugar baby.

Most of his dates with guys start out in bars, and then wind up back at his place, or at the other dude’s. And then they have their fun, and they don’t see each other again.

His mouth has gone dry. He takes a swig of his Sol, but it doesn’t help much.

Now  _ girls, _ that’s something he has a bit less of a colourful history with. There’s a script there, and he’s been over it so many times he could recite it in his sleep. You bring her for coffee first, just to get to know each other; second date, you take her out for dinner. If you have a good time, you send her flowers. Say you’d really like to see her again. See where it goes from there.

‘There’s a place not too far from where I live,’ he says, finally. ‘It’s Italian — a family business. Cosy.’

It’s hard to picture Castiel against a backdrop of imitation stucco walls with a slice of pizza on the table in front of him, but he tries. He imagines Castiel dressed like he is now, sleeves rolled up past the elbows so he doesn’t get sauce on them. Imagines his face lit up in a smile over something funny Dean just said. Imagines leaning across the table to wipe a crumb from the corner of Castiel’s soft pink lips.

Something twinges in Dean’s chest, low and insistent. He ignores it.

‘That sounds nice,’ Castiel says.

Dean shrugs. He feels uncomfortable all at once, like the spotlight is on him and Castiel can read what’s on his mind. He shifts in his seat, angling away a little, and clutches his beer like it’s a shield.

‘So why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? I figure if we’re dating, I probably know where you work.’

He tries for a smile, but it feels flimsy. He doesn’t know why he has to be so  _ weird _ about the whole thing.

Castiel, at least, doesn’t seem to notice.

‘I work at Carver Edlund. You know, the publishing company? I’m not involved in editing or anything, though — I’m an accountant.’

So Castiel is good with numbers. Finally, Dean knows something about him.

‘Family?’ Dean prompts.

Castiel makes a dour sort of face.

‘I have a twin brother,’ he says, ‘but we don’t really talk anymore. We used to be close.’

There’s something behind that, but Dean has the feeling Castiel isn’t comfortable sharing with a relative stranger. Probably not something a boyfriend of two months would be privy to, either.

‘You?’ Castiel prompts. The expression is gone, replaced with casual interest. ‘Do you have any family?’

‘A little brother. Sammy — uh, Sam. He’s… practically a frickin’ genius. He’s in law.’

With a nod, Castiel touches his glass to his lips and takes the scantest of drinks. When he’s done, he sets the glass down and cocks his head to the side.

‘Are you close?’

Dean almost laughs — to say that they’re close is an understatement. When their mom got sick, their old man kind of checked out and it fell to Dean, as the big brother, to hold down the fort. Sometimes he felt more like a parent than a child. Even now, far across the country from Sam, he still worries about the kid. He’s getting better about not checking up on him all the time, at least.

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ he says. ‘He lives in Stanford, but we try to see each other for all the big holidays.’

‘So, is he coming here for Christmas? Or are you going to see him?’

Dean shakes his head. They used to do that, a few years back, when Sam had his falling out with their dad. Since they patched things up, they usually go back to the family home.

‘I’m a nervous flyer,’ he says sheepishly. ‘We’re heading home to Lawrence this year. To see our dad.’

As Castiel takes in Dean’s words, he nods thoughtfully, like he’s really paying attention. Probably making mental notes for the Christmas party, in case anybody asks him a question he should know the answer to.

‘So, Dean… whatever your last name is,’ Castiel says. ‘You don’t like flying, you have a brother called Sam, and you’re a barista. I now know enough about you to convince someone we have a passing acquaintance with one another.’

It takes Dean a beat — and the slight curl of Castiel’s lips — to realise this is another one of Castiel’s attempts at dry humour. Dean gives his own wry grin and grabs his drink, pausing before he can take a sip.

‘It’s Winchester. My last name. And you’re Castiel…?’

Castiel wets his lips.

‘Novak.’

_ Novak. _ Dean intones the name, committing it to memory.  _ Castiel Novak. _ It’s a bit of a mouthful, to say the least. If they’d really been seeing each other for a little while, he probably would’ve already come up with a nickname for the guy. That’s a problem for another time.

‘I like cars. If that helps. Got a ‘67 Chevy Impala. She’s kind of my pride and joy.’

‘Let me guess,’ Castiel deadpans. ‘You named it.’

Heat prickles up under Dean’s collar, and as much as he wants to protest, he can’t.  _ Baby _ might have been an in-joke to begin with, but eventually it stuck. He can’t even deny it.

He rubs at the back of his neck and busies himself with his drink, if only to avoid the knowing smirk on Castiel’s lips.

‘Maybe,’ he says, ruefully. ‘But you don’t even know what me and that car have been through, man. She’s practically part of the family.’

‘I get it,’ Castiel says. ‘There was a horse girl in my class in middle school.’

Dean splutters indignantly, but Castiel’s joking again, and his eyes scrunch up as he gives a teasing laugh. It’s a nice sound, Dean thinks. Seldom-heard, but warm. Dean vows to take every opportunity he gets to hear it again.

They exchange little tidbits about themselves over their drinks, everything from where they went to school, to what they wanted to be when they grew up. It surprises Dean to no end that Castiel hadn’t actually been a massive math nerd when he’d been a kid — instead, he’d wanted to be a veterinarian. When Dean says he wanted to be a fighter pilot and almost enrolled in ROTC fresh off that childish dream, Castiel listens intently with a smile on his lips.

Castiel, it turns out, is a lot looser with his words when he’s drinking. Dean supposes he’s sort of the same; when he’s uncomfortable, he can usually push past it, but when Castiel reminds him that he owes him a drink, and Dean agrees to take one of whatever Castiel is drinking, the sharp liquor helps him slip into his comfort zone.

It’s nice. Almost like a real date.  _ Almost. _

* * *

‘I’m telling the truth!’ Castiel says, barely able to keep the laughter from tumbling out long enough for him to speak. ‘I had to hide in the bathroom and pray to God his boss didn’t need to pee.’

One drink turned into two, three, four. Dean isn’t  _ drunk, _ but he’s comfortably inebriated — which is more than he can say for Castiel.

Apparently, the guy turns into a veritable chatterbox when he’s been drinking. It would be difficult to get him to stop. Not that Dean wants to.

‘So what’d you do when the boss left?’ Dean asks, grinning at Castiel over the brim of his third whiskey. ‘Did you just… pick up where you left off?’

Castiel bursts out with a guffaw. His blue eyes twinkle when he laughs.

‘God, no. He was terrified she’d come back again. He practically threw me out of there.’

When the topic of embarrassing romantic encounters had come up, Dean had expected something from Castiel about spinach in his teeth, or going in for the kiss when his date was expecting a hug. What he  _ hadn’t _ expected was for straight-laced Trench Coat to regale him with a tale of a steamy after-hours embrace in the office where he used to work.

Compared to that, Dean’s story about getting caught making out with his first girlfriend — by her father, no less — seems relatively tame.

‘But he called you after, right?’ he asks, nudging Castiel’s elbow. ‘Tell me he called you.’

Castiel makes a pained face. It tells Dean everything he needs to know.

‘Geez.’ Dean winces in sympathy, tipping back a sip of his drink. ‘That guy doesn’t know what he was missing.’

A foot away from him, where Castiel sits — their seats have somehow gravitated closer together, and Castiel’s knee rests gently against Dean’s thigh — his cheeks flush red. He looks away, as though flustered, and an uncomfortable leaden weight settles into Dean’s belly.

There he goes again, acting like this is an actual date. Sure, the order of the day is to get to know each other better so they can at least make an effort at being convincing boyfriends, but as much as he might tell himself that he’s acting, that little spark he keeps feeling whenever Castiel laughs, or smiles, or just  _ looks _ at him, is anything but fake.

Dean drains the last of his drink and sets the glass down a little more heavily than he’d meant to.

‘I should, uh. I should probably get going. I traded shifts with somebody so I’m opening tomorrow.’

Castiel straightens up in the seat beside him. The worst of the heat has died from his cheeks, and his expression is cool.

_ Shit. _

‘Right,’ Castiel says. ‘Of course.’

Dean took his jacket off at some point — he doesn’t really remember when. He plucks it from his lap as he stands up and pulls it on, and Castiel, after rising to his feet, takes a moment to set their stools back where they’re supposed to go. He takes a little longer than strictly necessary to straighten them up.

Dean almost offers to go find him a T-square, but he decides against it at the last second. The moment for joking seems to have passed.

‘So, uh. I don’t know if you want me to pick you up tomorrow, or we can go separate—’

‘I’ll come get you,’ Castiel interrupts. ‘If that’s… If it’s okay. It would look better if we came together.’

Appearances, of course. With a lump in his throat, Dean gives a nod.

They’re staggered out from one another as they make their way for the door, Dean a little ahead with Castiel falling behind. Dean holds the door open and lets Castiel slip past.

Castiel offers to split a cab, but Dean politely refuses. For December, it’s pretty mild. Not a bad night to walk home in, and it’s not too far back to his place. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little fresh air to sober him up, anyways.

When a car rolls by, Castiel waves it down. He lingers for a moment after he opens the door.

‘Text me your address, when you get a chance,’ he says. ‘Is eight okay?’

Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, Dean inclines his head.

‘Works for me. I’ll see you then.’

Castiel gives one last nod of his head. For a little while, he still stays there, as if he might say something more — but the driver makes some comment that Dean doesn’t quite hear, and it seems the moment is gone.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ Castiel says.

He climbs into the back of the cab, and Dean watches him go, at a loss for what to do with himself. If this were a real date, he’d probably have kissed Castiel on the cheek —  _ I had a great time, can’t wait to see you again _ — but the normal rules don’t apply here.

The truth is, date or not, he  _ did _ have a good time. In fact, before he made Castiel uncomfortable with his little quip, he’d been having a  _ fantastic  _ time. He hadn’t wanted the night to end.

It’ll all be over and done with after tomorrow night, he tells himself, as the cab rolls by with Castiel in it. He just has to get through the office party and make a relatively convincing show of things, and then he never has to see Castiel again.


	3. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I meant to update this weekly on Sundays, but the chapters just keep getting longer and taking on a mind of their own. I'm having a _lot_ of fun writing this, though, and I hope you folks are enjoying reading! My effusive thanks to people who've already left kudos and comments; you make writing this all the more worthwhile.

Castiel plays his fingertips over the face of his phone as the cab rolls through the city. His fingers catch on the grooves of the screen protector, on the cut-out for the camera. When he makes it to the bottom of the phone, he starts again, sliding his fingers all the way up once more.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to call Dean up to say that he had a good time. It would be entirely true, too, and the compulsion is strong enough that if he were only a little more inebriated, he probably would. This is uncharted territory for him — at least, it is of late. The last time he got tipsy and called a date up to tell him he had a good time, they almost wound up marrying each other.

It didn’t quite happen like that, though. There were steps in between; steps Castiel could probably recall in vivid colour, if he only troubled himself to try.

The first step was a phone call.

He puts his phone away, shifting a little to get at the pocket of his pants. It’s irrelevant to inform Dean that he had a good time, he tells himself. Tonight had been about reconnaissance, and now that he’s relatively certain of the lay of the land, all that’s left is the party. If their time together this evening is any indication, they might just do a passable job at pretending to be a couple.

* * *

_ ‘I’m not, uh. I’m not exactly ready. Gimme a minute?’ _

Castiel shoots a look at the driver, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. Every minute wasted is more money on the fare, but Castiel gets the feeling that after the mixup he made over street names — sending the driver to the far side of town and back again — that the guy’s patience is wearing thin.

He wets his lips. He doesn’t want to rush Dean along, but he doesn’t want to make the driver wait, either.

‘How long is a minute?’ he asks meekly, artfully averting his glance from the mirror.

There’s a chuckle on the line, then a thud, and a muffled swear. When Dean’s voice comes back in, he sounds harried.

_ ‘You know what? Settle up and come up here. I’ll get us a cab when I’m done.’ _

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but he can practically feel the driver’s eyes boring into him via the mirror. With an apologetic smile aimed at the rearview, he digs around in his pocket for his wallet and scans the dashboard for the fare.

‘I’ll just get out here, if that’s okay.’

A couple later he’s outside Dean’s door, cautiously glancing around the hall. It’s a dingy building with a light overhead that keeps threatening to wink out only to flicker back to life, and there’s somebody yelling in one of the other apartments.

The door pops open after he knocks for a second time and Dean appears in the opening, hair wet and mussed-up, toothbrush jammed into the side of his mouth. He doesn’t bother to remove it when he speaks.

‘Make yerself at home,’ he says, ushering Castiel inside. ‘Promise I’m almost done.’

The apartment is small, but it’s well-lit with windows that run from the ceiling to a little below waist-height. Castiel attempts to keep his curiosity in check, but little things catch his eye — the takeout boxes on the counter in the kitchenette, the dirty laundry spilling across the floor — and he tells himself it’s not  _ nosiness _ that compels him to look, so much as a passing urge to know a little more about Dean.

‘The place is a mess, sorry.’

The toothbrush is out of Dean’s mouth, minty-green foam smudging the corner of his lips. He motions to the sofa, one of the few places in the living space to be largely untouched by clutter. Castiel chooses to ignore the handful of letters tossed haphazardly onto one of the cushions, and picks a seat at the far end.

‘So Ash — he took the closing shift for me so I could go with you tonight,’ Dean explains, a rueful look on his face. His voice drifts off after him as he ducks into the bathroom. ‘But then he called in sick, so I had to cover the shift he took to cover for  _ me, _ and they couldn’t get anybody in until like a half-hour ago.’

Castiel winces. He’s not bothered by Dean’s tardiness, but he hadn’t been aware of the disruption  _ he’d _ managed to level on the man. If not for dragging him along to the office party tonight, it seems as if Dean wouldn’t have had to go through any of this trouble.

‘What time were you supposed to finish?’

He keeps his tone light and conversational, letting his gaze wander over the assortment of magazines stacked on the coffee table. Cars, mostly. He hadn’t thought anyone even  _ bought _ physical magazines anymore.

‘Four,’ comes Dean’s reply. ‘I started at six. Been a long day.’

Castiel shoots a look at his watch. It’s a little after eight. If Dean only got cover thirty minutes ago, that means he was working for over thirteen hours.

Guilt crawls in his stomach, slimy and slick. He has a feeling he’s going to owe Dean somewhat more than a drink after this.

‘I’m sorry,’ he calls. If sincerity could make up for the trouble, he has it by the bucketload. ‘If you need to back out of tonight—’

‘You kidding? Free food, remember?’

Dean’s voice is closer, at the edge of the room, and when Castiel glances up he finds the man standing in the doorway of what he presumes is the bedroom. He’s toothpaste-free, and his hair has been styled with some sort of product. He’s wearing a red flannel button-up with a black T-shirt underneath it, and he’s somehow so casual and yet so  _ handsome _ that Castiel can only stare for a moment.

He clears his throat.  _ Staring _ isn’t part of the plan.

‘I’d offer you a beer,’ Dean says, ‘but you probably wanna get out of here, huh?’

It takes longer than necessary for Castiel to parse the words. That he’s  _ getting out of here _ with Dean Winchester — Dean Winchester who showed up to McSwiggans yesterday in a leather jacket, standing out from the clientele like a sore thumb and yet looking  _ incredible _ all the while — is still something he can’t quite get his head around.

This is  _ not _ a date, though. It’s just for tonight.

‘Of course,’ he manages to blurt out. ‘Unless you need more time…?’

Dean gives a shake of his head and pushes off from the doorway, grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter as he goes.

‘All set.’

With only a few minutes to take in Dean’s apartment, Castiel’s up again and heading for the door. 

‘It’s cute, by the way,’ Dean says, as he’s locking up after them. When Castiel looks at him blankly, Dean offers a nod of his head toward his chest. ‘The sweater.’

The Christmas sweater. Of course. He’s worn this old thing so many times that the knit is starting to wear thin on the elbows, and the pattern is an ugly repeating motif of llamas and cacti wearing Santa hats. It was a gag gift from Meg, and it’s become something of a long-standing tradition to wear it each year to the office party, no matter the venue.

‘It’s a… long story.’

Dean makes something like a snort before heading for the stairs.

‘Anything I need to know before we get there?’ he asks. ‘Anybody I need to avoid? I hear office politics can get pretty heady.’

He’s making chitchat, but Castiel laughs anyway. He supposes there  _ is _ an element of politics at Carver Edlund, with certain factions springing up between the various departments of the company. He would probably have avoided the whole thing entirely and happily kept to his small corner of things if Meg hadn’t forcibly dragged him out of his shell once, a few years back, thus sealing his place as  _ somebody _ at the office. There are times he certainly misses his former anonymity.

‘Nothing so sinister,’ he says, plodding down the stairs after Dean. ‘Anna will probably ambush you as soon as you get there — she’s the most excited to meet you. There are a couple of… unpleasant people from editing, but we tend to avoid each other. Meg you already know, so you can let your guard down with her.’

‘Meg. Right.’

There’s something in Dean’s tone that Castiel can’t quite place. Amusement, maybe? Before he can dwell on it, they’re emerging onto the street and Dean’s glancing this way and that, eyes keenly scanning for a cab.

It doesn’t take long to flag one down, at least, and soon they’re tumbling into the back of a car. Castiel gruffly rattles off the address of the bar the company has booked out for the function, internally hoping that he’s got it right this time.

‘Your coworkers get on your case about bein’ single?’ Dean asks, falling back against his seat. He rests an elbow by the window, chin nestled on his hand.

Castiel wets his lips. He’d wondered whether Dean would bring it up — the whole reason for the fake-boyfriend deal. He still feels a healthy lashing of shame over the fact that Meg had roped someone else into the situation rather than let him fix his own problems, but at least Dean had seemed happy enough to help out.

‘They  _ did,’ _ he says, turning his glance toward the window on his side of the car. ‘It’s been a relief having a break from it since I told them I was taken. It’ll be a shame to go back to their attempts to set me up with every man who has a pulse.’

Dean huffs out a chuckle, and the sound sends a prickle up the back of Castiel’s neck.

‘Well, if you find yourself in need of boyfriend services again, I could probably be persuaded to make an encore.’

It’s hard to know if he’s joking; if it’s just polite small talk, or a genuine offer. There’s something about Dean Winchester that seems so easy-breezy, like he puts every effort into making the people around him feel comfortable, and next to him Castiel feels tighter than a coiled-up spring and wetter than a fish.

There’ll be no encore, naturally. It had been more than Castiel could have expected for Dean to come along to just this one thing; to try to drag him to something again would be pushing his luck.

‘We never talked about pet names,’ Dean says suddenly. ‘You like to keep it simple, or are you one of those people who makes fun of folks who say “babe”?’

He’s grinning when Castiel looks at him, and it’s hard not to feel like there’s some joke happening that he’s not entirely privy to.

Castiel tries, somewhat abstractly, to think back to his relationship with Thomas. Had they used pet names? He definitely doesn’t think they ever used  _ babe, _ but there were probably a few  _ sweeties _ and  _ honeys _ thrown around. Other than Meg with her  _ Clarence _ bit, it’s been some time since anybody called him anything other than Castiel.

‘I’m… not sure,’ he admits. ‘I don’t know what would feel natural between us.’

He watches Dean’s tongue dart out to wet his lips; after a beat, he looks away, his gaze trained through the windshield up front.

‘Okay, so we hold off on the pet names. How ‘bout… I just call you Cas?’

A shiver crackles up Castiel’s spine, like a bolt of lightning. Thomas used to call him Cas, too, but the way Dean says it is so  _ different; _ soft and low, with the hint of a twang on it. If Dean has to call him anything, Castiel supposes he wouldn’t mind hearing him say it like  _ that _ for the rest of the night.

‘That works for me.’

With Dean’s face turned away, he can’t quite be sure, but he thinks he catches the ghost of a smile on the man’s lips.

The publishing company typically hosts a formal gathering to mark in the holidays, inviting clients new and old. Those ones are stuffy affairs, usually taking place at fancy hotels, and Castiel tries to avoid going to them whenever he can help it. It gets a little tiresome being asked questions about publishing and literature when his role in the company is entirely fiscal.

The office parties, though, are cosier events — organised by the non-executive staff at a smaller venue, a chance for everyone to let their hair down. Carver Edlund himself showed up one year, although after the lustre of having  _ The  _ Carver Edlund in attendance wore off, he made a flamboyant exit early into the night. 

This is the third year in a row that Anna has taken it upon herself to be the organiser, and she hasn’t gone wrong yet. Castiel is almost excited to see what she pulls out this year.

The cab pulls up outside an old brick building; the windows are set off with colourful panes of glass, and the warm glow of the house lights spills through onto the street. Outside, Castiel can see Rowena smoking a cigarette, huddling into a doorway against the chill of the night. Other than her, the sidewalk is empty.

‘Oh hey, I know this place,’ Dean says, squinting through the tinted glass of the car. ‘Me and Jo saw some band play here. Icarus-something.’

When Castiel moves to pay up, Dean gets there first. Pointedly, he avoids Castiel’s glare.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Castiel says, as they climb out.

Dean gives a lazy shrug.

‘My fault we’re running behind.’

As Castiel makes for the door of the bar, Dean falls in beside him, conspicuously close. It takes a second for him to remember why they’re here, together — why he’s dragging Dean along in the first place. The sudden realisation that they’re here to play make-believe as some happy couple sets Castiel’s innards churning, and he wonders if one night of going over the game plan was enough. If they’re lucky, maybe they can avoid speaking to anyone for too long…

Rowena, of course, has other ideas. She waves them over immediately, discarding her cigarette and crushing it under the toe of one dangerously pointy-looking black pump.

‘You must be Castiel’s mystery man,’ she says in her Scottish brogue. ‘Let’s have a look then!’

To Castiel’s growing horror, she practically rakes her eyes over Dean like a lioness assessing its prey. He didn’t think it possible for a man just over six foot to shrink under the gaze of a woman a full foot shorter than him, but Dean manages just that.

Rowena finishes her appraisal, shakes her mop of glossy red curls, and shoots Castiel an approving glance.

‘I was beginning to think the nameless, faceless boyfriend wasn’t real, but I see you’ve got yourself quite a catch. Aren’t you going to introduce us, petal?’

Bringing Dean here was a mistake. Their lie isn’t going to last ten minutes around someone like Rowena MacLeod.

Castiel clears his throat and looks at Dean, partly for reassurance and partly to nonverbally communicate if he’s still okay with things. The man is grinning now, if a little self-consciously.

‘Uh, Dean. This is Rowena — she’s the one who keeps everybody’s head screwed down at the office. Rowena, Dean. My boyfriend.’

After their introductions, Dean offers a hand for Rowena to shake, but she bypasses it entirely and steps close to him, gripping his arm and stretching up as if to kiss his cheek. Even in torturously lofty heels, there’s still a considerable height distance between them, but Dean — without the slightest hint of hesitation — leans down and allows her to brush a kiss to each of his cheeks.

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ Dean says, with a smile so candid Castiel can’t be sure he’s not flirting with her.

Rowena looks positively enamoured.

‘Looks like you’ve got a gent on your hands, Castiel.’

Castiel wets his lips. That’s enough of Rowena’s shrewd glance for now; he flashes Dean a small smile and gestures toward the door.

No sooner has Dean gone ahead than Rowena catches hold of Castiel’s sleeve, lowering her voice.

‘I have a good feeling about this one,’ she murmurs. ‘Hold onto him.’

As office parties go, the night is still young, but the bar is already half-full with regular patrons. Castiel sees a sign posted by the staircase to the far left, indicating the Carver Edlund party can be found upstairs.

‘She seemed nice,’ Dean says, as they make their way across the floor to the stairs.

Castiel coughs into his hand, trying to rid the lump that seems to have made itself at home in his throat.

‘Wait until she gets a couple of drinks in her. She’s never been one to pull her punches.’

There’s music playing upstairs, booming louder with each step they climb. It has a different quality than the song piping out of the tinny speakers on the first floor, and it takes Castiel a moment to realise there’s a band playing live. He vaguely recognises the song, but it’s been modified to give it a Christmassy cheer, so he can’t be quite sure.

At the top of the stairs, there’s only a handful of Castiel’s coworkers gathered, which means that his arrival with Dean catches  _ everyone’s _ eye immediately. He sees Anna do a double-take as she spots the man at Castiel’s side, before performing an exuberant sort of hop of excitement. Gabriel is beside her, and of course once Anna’s attention is on them, Gabriel’s is too.

‘Don’t make eye contact,’ Castiel says flatly. ‘Maybe they won’t see us.’

Dean laughs, and even if it had only partly been intended as a joke, the warm, unselfconscious sound sends a thrill up Castiel’s spine.

Dean drops his voice so that only Castiel can hear, and he leans close — close enough that Castiel can smell the spice of his aftershave. His stubble brushes Castiel’s cheek.

‘Relax,’ he says. ‘We’ve got this.’

There’s a slight nudge at Castiel’s hand, and before he knows it, Dean’s fingers are slipping through his own. His hand is warm and solid, and even as the  _ weirdness _ of holding somebody’s hand for the first time in years overwhelms Castiel, he can’t help thinking there’s something natural about it, too. Like this is something they do all the time together.

‘Castiel!’

Anna and Gabriel all but descend on them like a pack of rabid dogs, and Castiel can see Anna vibrating with barely-contained enthusiasm. Gabriel, meanwhile, is somewhat more coy; he sweeps his glance over Dean with a look not unlike the one Rowena had subjected him to.

‘My, my,’ Gabriel says. ‘The paramour lives. And what a hunk!’

He sticks a hand out, and Dean slips free of Castiel’s grasp only long enough to shake it.

‘I’m Gabe,’ Gabriel says. ‘This is Anna. She’s literally been dying to meet you.’

Anna swats him in the arm, hard, and her lips purse into a childish pout.

‘I have  _ not. _ I was a totally acceptable amount of excited.’

Both their gazes are on Dean, as could be said of pretty much everyone else at the gathering; Castiel is more than a little relieved that the attention is off of  _ him. _

‘This is Dean,’ he offers. ‘Honey, you want a drink?’

The epithet slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He tells himself that it’s part of the act, but he’s been  _ trying _ so hard, attempting to rigidly force himself into character, and yet it’s only now that he’s  _ not _ thinking about what he’s doing that he lets a stray  _ honey _ slip out.

He can feel his cheeks growing hot. Subtly, he shoots a look over at Dean.

Dean, to his credit, barely reacts — although there’s a strange smile on his lips that Castiel can’t quite make heads or tails of.

‘Sure, throw me to the wolves,’ he says, breezily. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,  _ Cas.’ _

He says it pointedly, and his hand gives Castiel’s a little squeeze before relinquishing its hold.

Castiel leaves Dean to be interrogated by Gabriel and Anna. Halfway to the bar he pauses to shoot a look back towards the group, and Dean gives him a wave as if to say  _ I’m all right, I’ve got this. _

He takes a little while to deliberate over what Dean would like to drink while he’s at the bar. He knows Dean told him to order the same thing for him, but there’s an unreasonable sort of pressure attached to it. Dean seems more like a beer sort of man, but he’d been happy enough with whiskey last night. Castiel wouldn’t mind taking some of the edge off his nerves, but it feels a little early to start out with hard liquor.

It dawns on him that Dean had asked for a Sol yesterday, so it’s probably a safe bet to start out with. He orders one for himself too, and leans against the bartop while he waits.

‘Your boytoy’s a hit.’

Meg’s voice is a welcoming dose of familiarity. She bumps his shoulder companionably as she steps in beside him.

Castiel moves to flag the bartender down again, but Meg cuts him off with a shake of her head.

‘Teetotal tonight,’ she says, tilting the glass of sparkling water in her hand. ‘You can treat me next time.’

Castiel takes a step back to look at Meg. She’s stunning, of course, her blonde hair falling in loose coils down her shoulders in stark contrast with the black of her sequin dress. It’s long and form-fitting, worn over a pair of black skinny jeans. There’s a little fabric Christmas tree pinned to the shoulder of her dress, the tiny lights on it blinking on and off rhythmically.

‘You look great, Meg.’

‘I know,’ she says, with a dramatic sigh. ‘It’s almost a shame you had to bring Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome along. How’s a girl supposed to get any action when everybody’s eyes are on  _ him?’ _

She points in Dean’s direction, as if Castiel needs any help finding him. When Castiel glances over, Anna’s laughing a little too enthusiastically at something Dean just said, and Rowena has joined the fray. She rests a hand on his shoulder as she purrs something to him, and Castiel is reminded once more of a predator stalking its prey.

He gives a wry shake of his head and turns back to Meg.

‘There’s probably some doe-eyed guy downstairs you could sink your claws into.’

She gives a shrug, stirring the slice of lemon into her water with her straw. 

‘You can still change your mind, Clarence,’ she says. ‘Everybody we work with might think he’s taken, but if you’re not careful somebody might snatch him out from right under your nose.’

Castiel can tell, objectively, that there are probably more than a few sets of interested eyes in this place, between his coworkers and the patrons downstairs. It’s Dean’s prerogative if he chooses to leave with someone else tonight — it might raise some questions at the office, but it’s not as if he owes Castiel anything.

The bartender arrives with his drinks, and he busies himself with gathering the two bottles up into his hands. If he’s not meeting Meg’s eye, he tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that he knows  _ exactly _ what she’s thinking.

Dean isn’t  _ his _ by any leap of imagination.

‘I still have to pay you back for your little stunt, by the way,’ he says.

Meg snorts.

_ ‘Please. _ I solved your predicament, and bagged you some arm candy in the process.’

Despite himself, he can’t help but smile. Meg’s methods can be unconventional sometimes but she’s always got his back. Still, she’s only  _ marginally _ less pushy than their coworkers when it comes to trying to get him back onto the dating scene.

She gives him a meaningful look and uses her chin to gesture behind him. Before he can turn, he feels a warm hand slip into the curve of his waist.

‘You forget about me already?’

Reflex almost makes Castiel press into Dean’s touch, but he just about restrains himself, swivelling around to face the man. There’s not much room here, between Dean and the bar; Dean is a lot closer than he’d thought.

He’s better at the whole  _ fake boyfriend _ thing than Castiel is.

‘I got your drink,’ Castiel says quickly, proffering the bottle.

He feels Meg’s weight settle against his shoulder, companionably close.

‘Clarence was just talking about rescuing you from the vultures. They were really picking you over.’

Dean laughs and takes the drink from Castiel’s hand, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

‘It wasn’t so bad,’ he says. ‘Starting to feel a little like the meat in the shark tank at the aquarium, though.’

Meg leans forward, and Castiel can almost imagine the look on her face, even with his gaze turned away from her — the quirked eyebrow, the curled lips.

‘Sounds like Castiel here’s got some competition.’

Castiel could  _ kill _ her.

Dean gives a shrug and leans against the bar, cradling his drink in his hands.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he says. ‘I’m not anyone else’s decoy boyfriend.’

There’s something subtly teasing about the lilt of his words and the curve of his lips, like the class bad boy acting up to get the teacher’s attention. Like he knows he’s being brazen, and he  _ knows _ he can get away with it.

It’s a little bit exasperating, and just a  _ little _ bit adorable.

‘Should we get a table?’

Castiel doesn’t mean to blurt it out — it just happens that way. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism to keep from letting Dean get under his skin. The less he lets the lines get blurred between them, the better.

There are already seats waiting for them, as it turns out. Gabriel has poached a prime table located conveniently between the bar and the food, and Anna and Rowena have taken up seats on either side of him.

Of all the people they could wind up with tonight, Gabriel, Anna and Rowena are probably far from the worst. He generally gets along relatively well with them, even if they can be a bit presumptuous at times, and they seem to like Dean well enough. It certainly beats sitting with Michael, who acts at times as if he owns the place, or Uriel, who seems to regard everyone with such disdain that it’s a wonder he hasn’t set fire to Carver Edlund in all his years there.

As they make their way over, Rowena pats the seat beside her, but Anna all but pulls him to the seat at her side.

‘What’s Castiel like outside work? We’re  _ dying _ to know.’

Dean shoots Castiel a smile as he lets Anna nudge him into the chair.

Anna seems like she’d be content to claim Dean as her plaything for the night, but if Castiel were worried about being forgotten, Dean’s hand reaches for his and closes around it, tugging him towards the free seat at his side.

‘You know what,’ Dean says, leaning on the table with his chin in his hand. ‘You’ve all known him for years now, right? There’s gotta be some dirt you can dish.’

‘Oh, is there ever.’

Gabriel steeples his fingers together, looking every bit the sinister villain. Out of everyone at the company other than Meg, he probably knows Castiel better than most, and it’s something that Castiel rues to this day.

Deadpan, Castiel looks over at his colleague.

‘Gabriel. No.’

The other man throws his hands up as if he’s the picture of innocence.

‘What?’ he protests. ‘I’m just saying, if your beau doesn’t know your drunken shenanigans  _ now, _ he’s going to find out eventually. Might as well be from the people who love you.’

‘You mean there’s more than just the story with the guy in his boss’s office?’

This comes from Dean, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, Castiel’s stomach drops. Dean, it seems, has realised his error; his eyes flash, and he shoots Castiel an apologetic look.

Anna tilts her head to the side like a bird catching sight of a particularly juicy worm.

‘What guy?’

At Castiel’s side, Meg gives a dark chuckle.

‘Oh, boy…’

Even Gabriel doesn’t know about this particular tale, and his eyebrows are tilted up almost comically high. Castiel knows he’s not going to let this one go.

Meg clears her throat, shifting in her seat. Castiel has the distinct, crawling feeling that something bad is coming his way — worse than the office story.

‘Gabe,’ she says, drumming her painted nails on the surface of the table. ‘You were there for New Year’s maybe three, four years back, right? With the tequila?’

Oh no.  _ No. _

Castiel sits up abruptly and fixes his stare on Dean.

‘Honey. Would you get me a beer?’

What he wants is for Dean to take the bait and beat a hasty retreat before Gabriel can spin this particular story; he  _ wants _ to keep some semblance of his reputation intact with a man that, for the most part, he’s managed to keep the worst of his history from.

Dean, however, has other ideas.

‘But  _ honey,’ _ he says, putting emphasis on the word as a smirk crawls across his lips. ‘You’ve still got a half bottle left.’

With a devilish look in his eyes, he shifts in his seat to face Gabriel. All eyes are on the shorter man where he sits a few seats away.

‘So, Gabe.’ Dean motions for him to go on. ‘New Year. Tequila. Spare me no detail.’

* * *

It gets easier to keep up the act as the night goes on. Maybe it’s the alcohol humming pleasantly in Castiel’s veins, or maybe it’s that easy way Dean has about him, but even when it’s just the two of them alone or with Meg, he finds himself slipping into a version of himself where he and Dean are head-over-heels with each other.

And it’s not difficult, really. Not with Dean. He’s handsome, and he’s funny, and he flirts with  _ everyone _ because it’s his way of being social. He makes eye contact and really listens when someone else is talking, and when he’s on a spiel about something that interests him, it’s impossible not to wind up hanging on his every word for how animated he is.

He’s down-to-Earth, and he’s selfless in the little things like buying a round for a group of people he only just met, or offering Meg his arm when she needs to head outside for some air.

If they were really together, Castiel can see what would have made him fall for Dean. It takes very little pretending when Dean’s the one slinging an arm around him, or pressing close, or murmuring some crass joke in Castiel’s ear just to make him burst out with raucous laughter.

The only ones left at Castiel’s table are Anna and Meg, Dean’s seat going cold since he excused himself to go grab some food from the buffet and wound up getting distracted by the selection. He’s like a kid at a birthday party, stuffing finger food into his mouth, loading up his plate with cocktail weiners and cheese sticks, and when he  _ finally  _ comes back he has  _ two _ full plates in his hands.

‘Take some,’ Dean says, setting the second paper plate down on the middle of the table. ‘This stuff is really good!’

He’s eating like he doesn’t know when the next meal might come, and even with his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, he’s the most gorgeous damned thing Castiel has ever seen.

There’s a heat under Castiel’s collar; a fluttering in his stomach. It only seems to get worse as he watches Dean chew through a sizeable mouthful of food.

This… This is not good.

‘I’ll be right back,’ Castiel mumbles. He’s not really sure  _ who _ he’s telling. Meg’s the only one who seems to hear, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

He heads the bathroom, and the reprieve from the Christmas renditions of popular music — as played by the band Anna hired — is a welcome one. The noise of the party is still audible here, but muffled by the weight of the door, and it’s cooler away from the crowd of bodies packed into the place now that the festivities have really kicked off.

He moves to the sink and splashes some water on his face, inspecting himself in the mirror. His cheeks are red, but that’s probably just the heat. The pink creeping up his neck is another matter, but he tries not to think too hard about that.

At least here, he’s away from Dean, away from the confusion of all the little touches and candid smiles and silly in-jokes that feel as though they’ve been sharing them for years.

Breathing in and letting it out in a sigh, he pushes up the sleeve of his Christmas sweater to check the time. Eleven-thirty-eight. They’ve been here a little over three hours, and by all accounts he’s clocked in enough time that he could leave without anyone kicking up too much of a fuss. Castiel’s pretty sure his coworkers are convinced of his ‘relationship’ with Dean enough for him to slip away without it being weird.

Would it be strange if they left separately? Should he suggest they leave together, to keep up the act? Dean seems to be having fun, so Castiel hardly wants to pressure him to leave if he’d prefer to stay.

He chews on his lip for a moment, mulling it over. It’s not even that he  _ wants _ to leave, but it’s starting to get to the time of night where he’d sooner be curled up on the sofa with a quiet glass of something than sitting in a calamitous bar with drunk people only getting bawdier by the hour.

Sparing only a moment to think it over, he pulls his phone from his pocket and finds Dean in his contacts. Dean’s the last phone call; the last text message. He isn’t sure if that says more about how easy it is with Dean, or how lacking his social life has been lately.

_ I’m going to go home. You’re welcome to stay if you would like to. _

It takes hardly any time at all for Dean’s reply to pop in.

_ You ok? _

Castiel sighs and lets his weight settle back against the sink counter behind him. It’s not necessarily that he’s  _ not _ okay, but he’s tired and playing boyfriends with Dean has been exhausting in a wholly different way.

_ I’m fine. I’m not really one for late nights. _

_ I think Megs looking for an out. We could split an uber? _

Gratitude flashes through Castiel, a warmth in his chest. There was a time when Meg could outlast anyone at a party, but she tends to flag earlier these days. He knows their coworkers can make a bit of a commotion sometimes when it comes to accommodating her, and he knows how much she hates it.

The quiet little things, like Dean looking out for Meg, without wanting her to feel embarrassed? Another item on the list of what would have made Castiel fall for him,  _ if _ they were really together.

_ Alright. I’ll call for one. _

When he gets back out, the band are playing a seasonal cover of ‘Jolene’ by Dolly Parton. A handful of people are slow-dancing to it; he spies Gabriel and Rowena locked in a clinch in a quiet corner of the bar, and silently marks it under things he did not see coming, but probably should have.

He takes up his seat and rests a hand on Meg’s shoulder, giving her a meaningful look. Her face is drawn and tired, and she’s just painting the wry smile on all the brighter.

‘Car’s on its way,’ he murmurs.

Lifting a hand, she touches her fingers to the inside of Castiel’s wrist.

The car’s not too far away, so there’s just enough time to down the dregs of their drinks before Dean makes a show of leaving. Either he’s tipsier than Castiel had realised, or he’s playing it up, but he slings an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and points grandly for the stairs.

‘Take me home, Clarence.’

Castiel tries not to roll his eyes at the sound of the nickname from Dean’s lips.

His coworkers seem more sore about seeing Dean leave than they ever have about Castiel dipping out. In another lifetime, they would probably have been fast friends with Dean; Anna stops him before he can get very far, scrawling her Instagram on the palm of his hand in bright red ink.

‘She’s an artist,’ Dean explains, leaning in close to Castiel’s ear as they make their exit. ‘My Sammy’s girl’s into that stuff, so I said I’d put them onto each other.’

With a few more distractions along the way — Gabriel and Rowena break from their embrace long enough for Gabriel to dig an elbow into Castiel’s side with a wink that only  _ he _ could pull off — they finally make it out with Meg in tow. The car rolls up not long after they hit the sidewalk, and the three of them bundle hurriedly into the back to escape the crisp night air.

‘How ‘bout we get you home first, Ms. Masters?’ Dean says. ‘You’re probably closer, anyhow.’

Castiel opens his mouth to interject that actually,  _ he’s _ probably the first stop on their trip home, but Meg’s already leaning forward to give her address. When she slumps back into her seat, she flashes a look past Castiel at Dean that earns her a grin in answer.

The driver doesn’t play music over the speakers, and Meg seems too drained to talk, so they spend the ride in silence. After the cacophony of the party, it’s a relief to Castiel’s ringing ears and jangling nerves, and he sinks into the plush faux leather of his seat, as relaxed as someone can be while wedged between two other people in the back of a car.

At Meg’s stop, she steps out and leans on her cane to look into the backseat before she goes.

‘Behave yourselves, boys.’

With a waggle of her eyebrows she’s gone, swinging the door shut in her wake.

It’s just the two of them now, so Castiel has the room to shift over to the other seat. It’s better not being crammed right up next to Dean, but there’s the tiniest part of him that misses being so close.

‘Where to?’ the driver asks, meeting Castiel’s eye in the mirror.

Dean clears his throat.

‘We can swing by yours first—’

Castiel cuts him off, rattling Dean’s address off to the driver.

‘I’m paying,’ he says, once he settles back into his seat. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

The silence falls over them again as the car takes off. With Meg, it had felt comfortable — sleepy and calm, a quiet sort of basking in the remnants of their revelry. With her no longer there to act as a buffer, each second that ticks by finds Castiel biting back the compulsion to fill the air with inane chatter. He should be thanking Dean for coming along, or making chitchat about the night,  _ anything _ to be rid of the silence.

Dean, for his part, seems content to look out of the window as they drive. If his sporadic attempts at clearing his throat are a segue into saying something, he never quite gets around to it before they’re pulling up outside his place.

He moves for the handle of the door, and for a little while he stops with his fingers wrapped around the plastic lever, frozen in place.

After a moment that seems to stretch on too long, he seems to come back to himself. Dropping his hand, he turns to Castiel.

‘Come up for a beer,’ he says. ‘One for the road.’

Something gnaws at Castiel’s stomach. Whether it’s whatever implication he’s getting from Dean’s words, or the intensity with which he wants to say  _ yes, _ he’s not wholly sure.

The sensible thing to do would be to politely refuse. He’s already got enough alcohol sloshing around in his belly, it’s getting late, and the boundary between their boyfriend roleplay and what feels like an actual date is starting to wear precariously thin.

He wants to say yes so badly. That’s precisely why he knows he shouldn’t.

‘Okay,’ he finds himself saying, despite it all.


	4. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the holidays have been a peaceful, relaxing time for everyone! We all deserve it.

Dean regrets inviting Castiel in the moment he opens the door and flips on the lights, but it’s too late for that now.

There are still clothes strewn all over the place, and empty beer bottles and takeout boxes. His bedroom’s even worse, but Castiel probably won’t be going in there.

Well.

It’s not like Castiel didn’t see what a pigsty the place is already, but it’s different now — or at least it feels like it is to Dean. Before, it was just a quick minute while Dean finished getting ready. Now, he’s here with the intent to actually  _ stay _ for a bit, and after the night they’ve had, Dean’s that little bit more self-conscious of the mess.

He makes a token effort at cleaning things up a bit, in that forced-casual, I’m-not-cleaning-up-because-you’re-here-I-was-gonna-get-right-on-it-anyways sort of way. Castiel doesn’t comment on it, not that Dean would expect him to.

‘I’ve got lager, beer, and probably some liquor knocking around in the back of a shelf,’ he says from the kitchen. ‘Pick your poison.’

He watches Castiel move to the couch and perch himself on the same spot as earlier, primly and neatly, as if to take any more space than he needs to. He rests his hands on his knees and looks toward the kitchenette with a shrug.

‘Beer’s fine.’

Dean pulls two Buds from the fridge, twists the caps off, and sets them aside. The empty cardboard boxes, he folds up and dumps into the recycling bucket underneath the sink. The rest of the mess can wait.

He makes his way to the other side of the room, taking a brief detour by the window. He doesn’t really do the whole  _ Christmas _ thing here — not when he won’t even be home all that much to enjoy it — but his one concession this year was a string of multicoloured lights wrapped around the empty curtain pole fixed above the window. He flips the switch on the extension cord and the lights spring to life, casting a rainbow glow over this side of the room, and over Castiel.

‘You hungry?’ he asks, as he passes one of the bottles to Castiel, and takes a seat in the armchair near him. ‘We could order something.’

Castiel makes a face.

‘You didn’t have your fill of the buffet?’

Heat crawls up Dean’s neck like a rash. He plays it off casual, with a lazy shrug of his shoulders.

‘I’m a growing boy.’

He chases his words up with a grin, and he catches a hint of it mirrored on Castiel’s lips before he ducks his head down to inspect the label of his beer.

Quiet falls between them. It’s just the distant hum of traffic on the street below, and the cheery blinking of the twinkle lights. Castiel is the first to break the silence, the pleather of the couch creaking underneath him as he shifts to look over at Dean.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For tonight. I still feel as though I owe you for that.’

He looks all serious, like it was some great burden to put Dean through. He meant what he said before about the free food — it was as good an excuse as any to go along. That he actually likes Castiel, in the platonic, unexpected friendship sort of way, is just a bonus.

‘Aw, c’mon, man. You don’t owe me anything.’

Dean lifts his beer and brings it to his lips. He tries not to study Castiel as he does, tries not to wonder why he hasn’t touched his own drink yet. Tonight was  _ good, _ and now it feels like there’s some barrier between them.

Maybe it was a mistake inviting Castiel up here.

‘You think your coworkers were convinced?’ he asks innocently.

Castiel breathes out a sigh and slouches forward in his seat. He’s nursing the beer like it’s something to fixate on, and Dean almost reminds him that it’s for holding, not drinking — until suddenly he lifts it to take a sip. He holds the liquid in his mouth for just a moment before swallowing it down.

‘With any luck. Anna certainly seemed to take a shine to you.’

Unable to hold it back, Dean snorts. That’s putting it mildly and then some; Castiel hadn’t been kidding about her being excited to meet him. She’d been incredibly nice, though, if a little heavy on the whole  _ youthful exuberance _ thing.

He tips his head to the side in a lazy half-shrug.

‘Honestly? She mostly wanted to talk about you. About us.’

It feels weird saying  _ us _ now that the night is over, and they’re not acting for anyone else’s benefit. For just a few hours it’d been easy to slip into that dynamic, to touch Cas and linger close to him. Even though it had all been show, it had almost felt real, for a little while.

He watches Castiel’s face to try to get a read on his reaction, but his expression is neutral and doesn’t give a whole lot away.

Another lapse in conversation. The stillness of the apartment suddenly gets to be too much and Dean finds himself jumping to his feet, heading for the sound system in the corner.

‘You cool if I play some music?’ he asks, with a glance over toward Castiel. ‘Could use a palate-cleanser after all the Christmas cover versions.’

Castiel tilts his head, eyebrows rising in puzzlement.

‘I thought you liked “With a Little Help from My Elves”.’

A groan slips free of Dean’s throat. He doesn’t even need to think of that particular song for it to pop into his head, the Beatles’ words replaced with Christmas-themed lyrics that bore into his brain like a parasite. He’ll be humming that one for weeks.

The sound system is some complicated rig that he got from a used electronics store; there’s a function for playing mp3s and CDs, but mostly he sticks to the tape deck. When he hits play on the cassette sitting in there, it’s at the tail end of ‘Bad Moon Rising’ by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Unconsciously, he drums along to the beat as he crosses back to the armchair, settling down into it. The music’s not overly loud but it breaks up the silence, and he feels a little more comfortable with something comfortable and familiar to cloak himself in.

‘So what’re you gonna do?’ he asks. He lifts his beer for a sip, and pauses. ‘With your coworkers. You think you can keep up the boyfriend story?’

He  _ doesn’t _ ask if Castiel will need help convincing them again. As much as he might like for it to be otherwise, his role in things is done.

‘Now that they’ve met you, they’ll probably be satisfied for a while. They know I prefer not to keep my private life separate from my professional one. Even if they don’t always  _ respect _ that.’

‘Fair point.’ 

Dean tips his bottle toward Castiel in agreement. From what he’s seen tonight — and all the personal, prying questions everybody seemed comfortable asking to get to know him — he’s not surprised. It’s not hard to imagine the exasperation that must have led to Castiel inventing a boyfriend to get them off his case.

He finally gets around to taking that sip. Once he’s swallowed, he mirrors Castiel’s posture, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his splayed thighs.

‘Can I ask you something, Castiel?’

The other man blinks up at him, as though taking aback.

‘Of course.’

Dean swallows. He isn’t really sure of the best way to ask this without veering into  _ prying _ territory. From the way Castiel got all cold when he made a quip about it being an ex’s loss when he didn’t call after they hooked up, it’s pretty clear there are certain boundaries that Dean still has to figure out between them.

‘I get why you made up the boyfriend shit to get them off your back,’ he says, pausing to wet his lips. ‘I guess I’m struggling to figure out why somebody like you isn’t with anybody for real.’

It takes about half a second from the look of quiet intent on Castiel’s face to slide away, replaced with something hard and cold. From the looks of things, Dean would swear he’d just insulted the dude’s mother  _ and _ kicked his dog for good measure.

‘Y’know what, forget it,’ Dean says, backpedaling furiously. ‘It’s absolutely none of my business and it was inappropriate to ask.’

He sits back in his seat, putting physical distance there to match the metaphorical gulf that seems to have swelled up between them.

The cassette hisses a little, flipping over to the next song — ‘Somebody to Love’ by Jefferson Airplane. Great timing.

‘I should leave,’ Castiel says, moving to stand. ‘It’s getting late.’

Dean almost lets him go — it wouldn’t be the first time he made a speedy exit after Dean said something stupid — but he’s feeling stubborn and he’s not about to let the night get ruined just like that.

‘Wait.  _ Cas.’ _

He puts out a hand but Castiel has already stopped in place, half-ready to rise from his chair, spooled up and waiting. His eyes land on Dean’s, and that walled-off look is still on his face but there’s the tiniest  _ shred _ of expectation in his eyes. Like maybe, just  _ maybe, _ he’s looking to be convinced to stay.

‘We hardly know each other, I get that,’ Dean says. ‘And yeah, we put on a pretty good show of being together tonight, but we’re not. Doesn’t mean we can’t get to know each other, right?’

It’s next to impossible not to drink in every minute shift of Castiel’s expression, like it might spell out whatever he seems reluctant to say aloud.

Castiel doesn’t get up to go, but he doesn’t quite relax in his seat, either. With a delicate clearing of his throat, he picks up his beer and takes a drink.

Internally, Dean tries to run through all the topics that are safe. Family’s out — Castiel clammed up the second he’d brought up his brother — and past relationships seem to be hit and miss, too. Work seems to be kosher enough, although after three hours surrounded by Castiel’s tipsy coworkers, Dean’s not sure they top the list of things he’d like to talk about.

‘Me and my brother Sammy,’ he says, haltingly. ‘We used to have this code when we were growing up, for—’

He breaks off. This is a story older than time — the shitty father, drowning himself in booze, who was either not there for his kids or had a raging temper when he was. He realises, with a hint of irony, that this is one of those things he’s not quite ready to talk with Castiel about.

He clears his throat and starts over.

‘It’s traffic lights, right? Maybe somebody’s got a short fuse and you don’t wanna tick them off — like your boss, or whatever. So you give your coworker a look, and they say  _ green light, _ ‘cause everything’s smooth sailing. Or maybe you say  _ red light, _ ‘cause they’ve got a hair trigger that day.’

Castiel’s eyebrows ripple, settling into a bemused slant.

‘Are you asking if I have a short fuse?’

Dean laughs, in spite of himself.

‘God, no. Just… you lemme know if I’m hitting too close to home, all right? Red light. Then you don’t have to get all jumpy and run off on me.’

‘I do  _ not _ get  _ jumpy—’ _

The words die off in Castiel’s mouth and he promptly swallows them down. He looks meek; apologetic.

‘Okay,’ he admits, ‘maybe sometimes I get a little jumpy. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone in my life who asks me about these sort of things.’

‘What about Meg?’ Dean nudges. ‘You two are pretty close.’

Castiel gives a shake of his head, his eyes casting toward the ceiling. The smile on his lips is equal parts exasperation and affection. 

‘Meg’s different. She… she doesn’t take crap from anyone. And she’ll always tell it to you straight. Even if she can be blunt sometimes, she knows my limits.’

Thoughtfully, Dean nods, mentally processing as he goes.

‘All right. Meg’s a green light, then. How long have you two been friends?’

‘Hm.’ Castiel leans back in his seat, head tipped toward the roof as he thinks. ‘We met at a party in college. Must be about a decade ago. There was a guy bothering her, so she jumped into my lap and said “don’t ask any questions, just pretend we’re together”.’

Dean bursts out with an ugly laugh. Somehow, he can picture it — a younger Meg, clambering all over a poor, confused Castiel.

‘And you went along with it? Geez, did you end up hooking up with her?’

‘Red light,’ Castiel says, utterly deadpan.

Surprise jolts through Dean. He’d thought they were good to talk about Meg, but maybe something happened there that the two of them don’t talk about. It’s hard to imagine a romantic relationship going sour between the two of them when they’re such good friends.

The tiniest of smiles cracks across Castiel’s lips, before he can get the chance to hide it. He’s kidding.

‘You’re an ass,’ Dean protests, reaching out to swat at Castiel, but the other man neatly dodges away.

‘We did not hook up,’ Castiel says, ‘thankfully. It would’ve been a little awkward since I don’t swing that way.’

It’s silly, really, that this tidbit catches Dean by surprise. Maybe he’s just chronically unlucky, but he has a history of winding up with guys who are either in the closet, or who treat their dalliances as experimentation. He’s met some guys who were pretty open about being gay, but even in the twenty-first-freaking-century it’s like it’s something you’ve gotta read between the lines for.

When Charlie had started working at Harvelle’s part-time to pay for her MSc, she’d been a breath of fresh air — a lesbian who talked about how pretty girls were without a care for who was listening.

‘Fair enough.’

Now he actually  _ knows _ something of substance about Castiel, and he’s not sure what to do about that information.

There’s probably an opening there for him to talk about his own sexuality, to riff about what it’s like being not-straight in a world that still tries to fit people into identical little boxes, but they’re not fifteen years old and this isn’t a high school GSA.

‘Hold up.’

He narrows his eyes to look at Castiel, brakes screeching in his head before he slams into mental reverse over what the dude said.

‘You’re telling me,’ he says, pointing his bottle accusingly toward Castiel, ‘that Meg fake-boyfriended you? Holy shit.’

Castiel doesn’t seem to catch on right away. When he does, though, it’s a beautiful thing to watch as it unfolds. A tired look crosses his face, and he covers his face with his hand, scraping it down and over his jaw.

‘Meg Masters fake-boyfriended me,’ he says, flatly. ‘I should’ve seen this coming.’

Dean lets a laugh of delight escape. Sitting forward, he proffers his beer to Castiel to make a toast; the bottles make a cheerful  _ clink _ as they collide.

‘To fake boyfriends,’ Dean says, sitting back with the grin still warming his lips. ‘Saving asses and spawning friendships since the dawn of mankind.’

He helps himself to a gulp of beer and watches Castiel do the same. The guy’s eyes are crinkled, warm, as they watch him over the brim of his bottle.

They only have that one beer together; Castiel protests that he’s flagging, and even if they’re having a good time, Dean doesn’t feel like pushing him when they’ve got a good thing going. Still, Cas takes his time about leaving, and something little winds prompting a new thread of conversation, and it takes about three declarations of  _ ‘Okay, I should go now’  _ before he actually makes it off the couch.

The party feels like it happened in a different lifetime.

‘You sure you don’t wanna get an Uber?’ Dean asks, as they finally get to the door. ‘It’s kinda dicey waving down a taxi at this time of night.’

Castiel shakes his head. Pushes a hand through his dark hair, sending it sticking out every which way.

‘If I stay any longer, we’ll never stop talking.’

Dean lets out a scoff. The guy’s got a point.

‘All right. Just don’t go freezing your ass off out there.’

‘Don’t worry. I know where you live.’

It’s a breezy remark, and Castiel seems like the type who wouldn’t want to trouble somebody by knocking on their door for shelter even if there was a blizzard raging outside. Still, it’s nice to briefly entertain a fantasy of him coming back up to the warmth of Dean’s place, sharing another beer…

They’re at the door, and Dean’s hand is on the latch, but neither of them are moving. If this were a date, Dean would be going about this  _ all _ different.

Castiel licks his lips.

Dean’s heartbeat is a heavy, insistent rhythm in his chest. He can feel it fluttering at his throat. Castiel’s lips are a little chapped, but they’re a soft pink, and now that the guy’s brought his attention to them, Dean can’t quite look away.

‘Dean?’

His glance darts up at the sound of Cas’s voice. The guy’s blue eyes are wide, his head tilted in that little way of his.

‘Uh huh?’

Tentatively, Castiel clears his throat.

‘The door.’

It’s like cold water getting thrown at Dean’s face. Of course, he was the one not opening the door, holding things up. And he’d been so sure they were having A Moment.

‘Right,’ he laughs. ‘Opening the door would help.’

He pops the latch and the door cracks open, cold air rushing through the gap. Somebody must have left a window open on one of the landings.

The door sweeps over the floorboards as he pulls it open, uneven edges catching on the wood, and Castiel steps into the opening. At the threshold he stops and turns to Dean.

For a long while he looks like he’s wrestling with himself.

‘I had a good time tonight,’ he says finally, a little stilted, almost like he’s reciting it off a script. There’s sincerity in his eyes, though, and his lips are parted like he’s going to say more, and Dean finds himself leaning forward in anticipation.

_ I had a good time tonight, and I’d like to see you again. I had a good time tonight, but I don’t think we should take this any further. I had a good time tonight, but I won’t be requiring your acting skills any longer. _

Dean knows, in his heart of hearts, which one he wants to hear.

Castiel clears his throat,  _ again, _ and with an awkward sort of nod he turns away and steps a foot past the threshold.

‘Cas. Wait.’

Whatever balls Dean conjured up to get the words out, they evaporate when Castiel turns around to face him. His brows are lifted, his eyes wide and expectant, and again he has that look like there’s a part of him, buried deep down inside, that wants to be persuaded to stay.

What if Dean tried — would it work? What if he asked Cas to spend the night, just to talk, just to see if there’s enough between them to try for something more?

Their loved-up couple thing tonight might have been an act, but it was easy for Dean to play the smitten boyfriend when he genuinely  _ likes  _ Cas. Sure, Cas had been a little stiff, a little slow to ease into things, but there had been a spark there — hadn’t there?

Now, looking at Cas’s expectant face, with the open door between them… Dean isn’t so sure.

‘Forget it,’ he says, with a shake of his head. ‘Just… get home safe, all right?’

Castiel blinks at him for a moment, then gives the tiniest inclination of his head. Like a reset, a neutral calm settles over his face. Any shred of expectation is gone.

‘Of course. Goodnight, Dean.’

‘G’night.’

Dean waits until Castiel gets to the stairs before shutting the door. There’s no point in watching him on his way out; he’s a grown man, he can look after himself.

Whatever it is that makes Dean gravitate to him, makes Dean a little protective of him — it’s one-sided. The sooner Dean gets that into his thick skull, the better.


	5. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. I've been having A Time of things irl. The next chapter's all written up and ready to go, so you'll have that next weekend right on time. Promise <3
> 
> Just a note to add that the tags have been updated with 'Sick Dean Winchester', which will come into it in the next chapter. Long story short, there's nothing serious going on with him, but having recently rewatched 1x12 'Faith', I wanted to bring his heart issues into this story. It's nothing life-threatening (unlike that episode D:) but I thought I'd bring it up in the notes, since I know it can hit close to home for some.

Castiel’s pulse is a heavy, drowsy throb at his throat.

He’d hoped the cold air would sober him up somewhat — if anything, it’s simply thrown everything into sharp relief. The stubble across Dean’s jaw, the curve of his smile; the way his eyes light up when he laughs. The look that had been in his eyes when the two of them had been at the door, as if he’d wanted to ask Castiel to stay; the way a not-so-buried part of Castiel had wanted him to.

He makes it to the end of the block before he realises he doesn’t really know where he’s going. Home is the eventual destination, of course, but the  _ getting there _ seems to have slipped through the cracks. It’s late and it’s dark and it’s  _ cold _ and he needs to get home, and all he keeps thinking about is  _ Dean. _

A decade ago, this would’ve been a pleasant development. Going on a date with a guy, getting to know each other over drinks, the tantalising anticipation of whether his date was going to invite him in… All of that had been thrilling to Castiel, once.

But then everything had changed.

The cold nips at his fingers, turning them numb. He stuffs them into his pockets and begins his search for a cab in earnest, but the meagre warmth of his leg seeping through the fabric of his pockets isn’t enough to stave off the chill for long.

* * *

‘Mmmm, rabbit food. My favourite.’

The sarcasm dripping from Meg’s voice is so sharp it makes Castiel wince. He knows out of all the places they could’ve gone for lunch, the trendy vegan spot that recently opened up here probably wouldn’t top Meg’s list. It’s closer to the office than Harvelle’s, though, and more to the point it’s  _ not _ Harvelle’s.

Which means Dean isn’t here.

Castiel spears some unidentifiable legume onto his fork and pops it into his mouth. It’s not bad, but it’s no homemade pastry or scone. And the green tea he ordered for himself is a far sight from his usual coffee with the fancy art Dean likes to leave in the foam.

Pointedly, he goes after a few more of the peas, picking up as many as he can before his fork won’t hold any more.

Across the table, Meg clears her throat. Castiel ignores the prompt for as long as he dares before dragging his eyes up to meet hers.

‘Was the sex really that bad?’

Castiel splutters, grateful that he’s already swallowed his mouthful so he doesn’t choke. Meg doesn’t so much as blink.

‘Excuse me? I don’t—’

Her gaze is cutting, and it doesn’t leave him even for a moment.

‘We’ve had lunch at Harvelle’s pretty much every day since we started going there and suddenly you want salad? Either you made a pass at him and he shot you down, or you hooked up and it sucked. So which one is it, Clarence?’

It’s after noon, but it still feels a little too early for Meg’s particular brand of cutting through the bullshit, and Castiel is not nearly caffeinated enough for it. He makes a point of looking away with every intention of refusing to reply, but he can see her staring at him at the periphery of his vision and it’s impossible to keep it up.

It’s not the first time he finds himself wondering if she was an interrogator in a past life.

‘There was no sex,’ he says briskly, ‘or shooting down, for that matter. We shared a drink at his place, then I went home. That was all.’

‘Huh.’

She leans over the table towards him, her dark hair falling in curtains around her face. There’s a knowing curl in the arch of her eyebrows like she sees right through him, and even though he’s telling the truth he can’t help but feel as though he’s imminently going to be  _ found out. _

‘If  _ that was all,’ _ Meg says, ‘then why are you avoiding him like he dropped the L-bomb on the first date?’

‘Maybe I’m just not interested in him, Meg.’

It comes out sharp and hostile, and it’s a lie, and somehow that makes his little outburst even worse. They’ve seen each other on the worst of days, pretty much at rock bottom, and even if Castiel struggles to be honest with  _ himself _ sometimes he’s never actively deceived Meg.

For just a moment, she looks as though she’s taken a slap to the face. It isn’t long before the look is gone, a mask of neutrality settling over it.

‘All right. Forget I mentioned it.’

Castiel shovels the forkload of legumes into his mouth. They taste dry and ashy, but he doesn’t really feel much like eating anymore, anyway.

He sets his fork down with a clatter and pushes a hand through his hair.

‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.’

Meg gives the merest of shrugs.

‘I’m a big girl. I’ll live.’

She’d drop it in an instant — he knows she would — even if her curiosity might be killing her internally. The thing is, as much as Castiel doesn’t want to talk about it, to think about it, to think about  _ Dean, _ there’s a part of him that desperately wants to get it off his chest, too.

Keeping it bottled up is like the opposite of trying not to think about it; it’s locking himself in a room with it playing on repeat, where all of his attempts to block his ears against it repeatedly fail.

‘For a minute, when I was leaving, I thought he was going to ask me to stay.’

Meg looks at him guardedly, a little bit of interest registering in her eyes.

‘And?’

A lump knots in Castiel’s throat. He swallows it down.

‘And he didn’t,’ he says slowly, haltingly. He wets his lips and grabs his tea, mostly just to busy his hands with the cup. 

‘And you’re avoiding him because you wanted him to…?’

Castiel huffs out a sigh and looks away. This is already getting more invasive than he’d like, but they’ve opened the can of the worms and he has a feeling it’ll leave a bad taste in his mouth all day if he doesn’t just spit it all out now.

‘I didn’t want him to,’ he says. ‘I kept rehearsing excuses if he asked me to, and then he didn’t, and I felt… I don’t know.’

He shakes his head and rubs at his forehead, smoothing the worry lines out with his fingertips. Through his fingers he can see Meg watching him, incredulous almost, and he wonders how much time he’s got to steel himself before the inevitable.

But then she cocks her head, and he knows he never stood a chance.

‘As much as celibacy suits you, Clarence, I’m starting to get whiplash over here. You know you’re allowed to want things, don’t you? The world’s not going to implode.’

‘It did last time.’

He’s shooting for wry, but it comes out sad, and dejected, and a little bit of the bitterness and loneliness he’s been locking away for years peeks its head out before he can roundly bury it down again. If there’s anybody he can be vulnerable with, it’s Meg — and that’s ironic, in a way, when she’s the one who rags on him harder than anyone else he knows — but he doesn’t  _ want _ to be vulnerable. He doesn’t want to open up that door, in case he can’t shut it again.

‘Dean isn’t Thomas,’ Meg says. ‘Hell, you’re not even who you were back then. Why are you so afraid of something going wrong that you won’t even give him a chance?’

‘Meg. I’m afraid of it going  _ right.’ _

And there it is — the little crack in the door, and he can feel the past five years of anger, of disbelief, of confusion trying to rush through it.

He cards a hand through his hair and fixes his eyes on the barely-touched food in front of him, because it’s easier than looking Meg in the eye.

‘I let my guard down with Thomas,’ he says softly, ‘and I was happy and everything was perfect, and look what happened. I can’t go through that again.’

‘You can’t let something that happened five years ago stop you from living your life, Clarence.’

Meg’s voice is devoid of any sort of nicety; it’s sharp and dry, and he knows if he looked up at her she’d be giving him one of her trademark sardonic stares, like he’s some poor, pitiful turtle trapped on his back who should be more than capable of flipping the right way again.

He closes his eyes against the clinical glare of the cafe lights and just sits like that for a while, reeling everything back in, packing it all away into its rightful place in the boxes at the back of his mind.

That’s enough vulnerability for one day.

‘You’re not marrying this one,’ Meg says, and she says it so gently that Castiel can’t help but look up to meet her eye. ‘You haven’t even slept with him, and you’re already thinking five years ahead into the future to something that’s probably not even going to happen.  _ Give him a chance. _ If things get too scary, you can always walk away.’

She doesn’t wait to see if her words have had any impact; she flops back into her seat and grabs her drink, and with an almost self-satisfied smile on her lips she takes a sip. As soon as the liquid hits her tongue, she makes a grimace, and sets the drink aside.

‘Oh, and Clarence? We’re going to Harvelle’s tomorrow. I’ve had enough soy to last me a lifetime.’

* * *

He tries to ignore the little frisson that rolls down the column of his spine as he and Meg step into Harvelle’s the next day. His mouth is a little dry, like cotton wool, and even though he tells himself that he only agreed to give Dean a shot, not jump into bed with him, he can feel the anticipation cooled up in his belly as he shoots a look around the shop for one tall figure in particular.

But Dean isn’t there; and he’s not there the next day either when Castiel slinks into the coffee shop with a more tempered brand of excitement. By the end of his lunch hour he’s starting to think there are two options — either Dean happened to get rostered for two late shifts, or he volunteered for them because he knows Castiel only ever drops by around lunch.

It’s ridiculous, and frankly it’s arrogant, and Castiel resolves to push it to the back of his mind. If Dean isn’t there the next day, he’ll take it as a sign one way or another and stop trying — and if Dean  _ is _ there, then, well… He’ll just wait and see.

* * *

‘Have you heard of a little thing called a cell phone?’ Meg says, shooting Castiel a knowing look over the lip of her coffee mug. ‘You should try using it sometime. I hear it’s great for when you need to talk to somebody, but they’re far away…’

It’s the third time they’ve come by this week without any sign of Dean, and despite Castiel’s best efforts, it had been impossible to ignore the way his stomach had dropped when he’d come in to find somebody different working there yet again.

As if it isn’t bad enough that Castiel is letting the whole thing get to him, there’s an added layer of patheticness that Meg has seen right through him, too.

He drops his head, avoiding the cutting look in her eyes. He can still feel her gaze on him, though.

‘I’m not calling him,’ he grumbles. ‘He’s entitled to his space and privacy. Besides, we’re not even dating — it would be weird.’

‘I bet he wishes you were dating.’

Meg’s tone is an effort at innocence, but it’s so far from convincing it drags a laugh from Castiel’s lips. He shoots a sidelong glance at her and she’s smirking like something that crawled up from the depths of hell to torment him, knowing fully well that it’s working.

‘Why don’t you get me another drink?’ she coaxes. ‘You can ask where Loverboy is while you’re there.’

With an exasperated sigh — Castiel knows there’s no point in fighting it — he grabs Meg’s empty cup and gets to his feet.

He’ll go up for a refill, sure, but that doesn’t mean he has to ask while he’s up there.

Dean’s frequent coworker and friend —  _ Jo, _ if he recalls — is on duty today with a guy with a mullet yanked straight from the eighties, and Jo’s the one who comes over to him with something of a smile on her lips.

‘What can I getcha?’ she asks cheerily.

It’s friendlier than she’s ever been with him — with anyone, really — and he can’t help wondering if it has anything to do with Dean. In a way, she now knows Castiel by association, and he supposes that’s as good a reason as any to be particularly nice.

‘Another double-caramel latte,’ he says. And then, as if he’s only remembering that manners are a thing: ‘Please.’

‘Sure thing.’

She makes it in front of him, and when she brings it over after he’s paid, she lingers for a little bit longer than strictly necessary. He has the sinking feeling that she’s waiting for  _ him _ to say something.

That cotton-wool feeling is in his mouth again. If Meg were beside him, she’d nudge him into using the opportunity to ask about Dean, and there’s a not insignificant part of him that maybe wants to, too. But he already made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t.

‘So,’ he says, a little awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’

He’s barely turned around before she calls out to him.

‘Cas.’

He’s never introduced himself to her — and he would’ve used the long-form of his name, anyway — which leads him to believe that Dean was talking to her about him. There’s something about that, something that ignites a little spark within him, and even as he tells himself to tamp it down he can feel it, feel it burning in his chest as he turns to face her.

The blonde is leaning on the counter, all casual, and he knows before she opens her mouth that she’s going to ask for something.

‘So Dean’s out sick.’

Castiel’s stomach flips. So that’s why he’s been out. Guiltily, he realises that possibility never even occurred to him.

‘It’s nothing contagious,’ Jo says, almost idly. ‘But he’s laid up all miserable at home. Alone. Just so you know.’

Castiel blinks.

Is she trying to get at something?

‘There’s this soup his mom used to make for him when he was sick, and my mom’s kind of like a mom to him too, and—’

She cuts herself off and shakes her head.

‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Not important. Anyways, my mom left some soup for him to warm up, but I’m working a double today to cover his sorry ass so I can’t get it to him. Maybe if you’re free later, you could…’

He blinks again, and the ridiculousness of the situation is so profound that he can’t help wondering if he’s being messed with.

It’s all too obvious now what she’s doing, and it reminds him of the farfetched set-ups they seem to favour in romantic comedies, where the leads are madly in love with each other but can’t see it, as everyone around them tries desperately to push them together.

She’s giving him this mundane task that she could easily get  _ any _ of Dean’s coworkers to do, because she wants  _ Castiel _ to do it. Because she wants him to go see Dean. Because Dean, evidently, has been talking about him to her at length.

Castiel really should politely refuse, on principle alone.

‘Okay,’ he blurts. ‘I can do that.’

She looks surprised at that, about as surprised as he feels. She clearly wasn’t expecting anything to come of the suggestion.

‘Really? I mean — great! Just swing by whenever you can. I’ll be here.’

He could still refuse, he tells himself as he turns away with Meg’s coffee in hand. Make up some excuse about overtime, about some big deadline he’d forgotten. But even as the words threaten to slip past his lips, he quickens his pace and heads back to his table before they can get out.

This whole thing runs against everything he’s internalised in the years since Thomas left, against every instinct of self-preservation. This is the first step down a path he’s forbidden himself from following, and frankly it’s terrifying to imagine what lies at the end of it.

As much as he’s scared, though — as much as he wants to cut and run, to delete Dean’s number, to never come back to Harvelle’s again — there’s just the tiniest part of him that  _ wants _ to take that chance.

And it’s getting bigger by the minute.

* * *

Christmas has been creeping closer each day, slow and steady. Without anybody to buy for — Meg and his office Secret Santa assignment notwithstanding — Castiel’s lucky enough to be spared from the spending fever that seems to infect everyone around this time of year. Every day he hears somebody at the office mumbling about how they still have to get something for their sister, or their nephew, or that friend from high school that they’re somehow still miraculously in touch with after all these years.

The city’s all abustle as he makes his way through it later that day. Everyone around him seems not to share his lack of care; everywhere he looks there are people weighted down with countless bags of purchases, and everyone seems so dead-set on moving store to store that they don’t pay much heed to who’s around them.

Castiel remembers Christmas when he was little. He remembers his dad covertly bringing him out ‘to get snacks’ only to lug him into town to get something special for his mom; he remembers the way their hometown was all lit up with pretty lights, and how everyone had worn a smile as they’d passed by. It’s different now, when everyone’s so intent on buying the most gifts, on spending the most money, on grabbing the latest shiny toy for the kid waiting back home.

Somehow he makes it to Harvelle’s without being trampled, and it’s not too far from the coffee shop to Dean’s place so he’s still in one piece when he arrives at the door. Still in work clothes, he has the tomato rice soup tucked under one arm and his briefcase under the other, and he juggles them as he reaches for the buzzer only to fall short before he gets there.

This is ridiculous.

Jo sent him here on some inane errand because apparently, much like Meg, she can’t let things lie — and it rankles at him, the feeling that somebody thinks they know what’s best for him. He hated it when Jimmy did it, and it was enough to drive a wedge between them, in the end.

He hates it when Meg does it, especially because she knows he hates it, but at least he knows she’ll stop before she pushes him too far.

Jo, though? He doesn’t even know her, has never been  _ introduced _ to her, and she’s plucking cheerily at his puppet strings as if she knows even the first thing about him. Worse still is the prospect that Dean put her up to it;  _ that’s _ enough to make irritation flare up inside Castiel, hot and bright, and he almost sets the soup down on the ground by the door, ready to head for home.

_ ‘I’m just trying to help, Castiel. I care about you.’ _

That was the last thing Jimmy said to him in person — or one of the last things, anyway — before Castiel’s pride got the better of him. At the time, Castiel had tuned the words out; the prospect of somebody meddling because they wanted him to be happy had been as foreign of a language to him as Mandarin.

He hates being manipulated, sure, but is it even about that in the end? Is it really his pride, or is it the fear of taking a chance?

His finger’s still poised over the buzzer by Dean’s name when the door pops open; the teenage girl who opened it startles for a moment at the sight of him, then deftly steps around him. She doesn’t pull the door shut behind her, and it’s a little slow to swing shut, and he knows he shouldn’t step in uninvited but if he doesn’t do this  _ now _ he never will.

Putting a hand out, he stops the door, then pushes it open and steps inside.

The building is chilly, but at least it’s sheltered from the frigid air outside, and he loosens the scarf around his neck a little as he moves for the stairs. He can hear assorted noises from the other apartments, a distinct rhythm under the beat of his footsteps. His own building is whisper-quiet, much to his pleasure; he doesn’t think he could go back to living somewhere with paper-thin walls and neighbours with little regard for noise levels.

At Dean’s door, he doesn’t even give himself the chance to hesitate. He reaches out and raps on the wood and takes a step back, cradling the soup-filled Tupperware to his chest like armour.

It’s a little while before Dean answers — guiltily, Castiel considers that he might have been resting, and that he should have sent a message to warn him he was coming over. Oh well. It’s a bit late for that.

The door cracks open, and all he gets is a flash of Dean’s green eyes widening before it swings open wide. He’s clearly surprised to have a visitor — probably even more surprised that it’s Castiel of all people — and Castiel can’t really blame him.

He looks like hell. He’s pale, dark circles ringing his eyes, and his sandy hair is all mussed-up as though he’d spent all day sleeping. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie and for all his stature and broad shoulders, the garment somehow manages to make him look small and frail underneath the folds of fabric.

‘Cas.’ His voice sounds hoarse and so, so small. ‘What are you — what are you doing here?’

Castiel wets his lips and takes a step forward, thrusting the soup towards Dean.

‘Jo wanted me to give this to you,’ he says. ‘Mind if I come in?’


	6. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for discussion of a heart condition (arrhythmia, specifically). Very briefly mentioned, but just thought I'd put a warning on it in any case.

To say that Cas is the last person Dean had expected to show up on his doorstep would be a huge understatement.

Jo had said she was sending somebody up with soup from Ellen, but he’d figured Ash or Charlie, maybe — never Castiel. If he’d even thought Cas was a remote option, he would have laughed the idea off. The guy had made it pretty clear there was nothing going on between them.

For a minute Dean stares stupidly at the man on his doorstep, and then he realises the tub filled with soup is for  _ him _ and he takes it, finally, before stepping aside and to Castiel in.

‘Jo told you I was sick?’

Dean presses the door shut and brings the soup over to the kitchenette. The whole place is a mess, and he hates having Cas here when it looks like it does — when  _ he _ looks like he does — but he can’t say he’s unhappy to have the dude here at all.

‘She informed me it’s not contagious. Dean, are you aware that it’s freezing in here?’

Dean gives a meek shrug as he pops the lid on the soup and sets it in the microwave, zapping it for a minute. He doesn’t know if he’s more excited about the soup — Ellen’s the only one who cooks tomato rice like his mom used to — or about the prospect of holding something warm in his hands.

‘Heat’s on the fritz. These old places, y’know?’

He feels bad about that, and about the way Castiel seems loath to take off his scarf and trench coat. He feels bad about the fact that he’s been too sick to clean up after himself, and he feels even worse that Castiel has to see him now, like this.

There’s nothing to be done about it, he figures. He  _ will _ have a thing or two to say to Jo when he gets back to work, though.

‘Can I get you anything?’ he asks, using the counter for support while he waits for the soup to cook. ‘Ellen’s soup is awesome if you wanna try it. Not… a whole lot else to offer.’

He never did get around to stocking up on groceries before he wound up on bed rest. Ellen would send Jo on a store run post-haste if she knew, but he hates her worrying about him — she does it enough when he’s  _ not _ sick.

Castiel lingers awkwardly in the space between the kitchenette and the living room proper. He’s still wearing his suit, his briefcase under his arm, which meant he probably came straight here from work.

‘I ate at work,’ he says. ‘Thank you, though.’

Dean chews on his lip. Cas is pretty much the physical manifestation of one foot in the door and one foot out of it, and it feels like he’s about to leave at any second if he doesn’t have a reason to stay.

‘Tea?’ he offers. ‘I’d offer you coffee, but I’m out.’

‘Tea’s fine.’

The microwave dings while Dean is getting the mugs ready, but he ignores it. It’s been days since he’s felt well enough to do much of anything, so having the chance to prepare something for someone  _ else _ gives him an unexpected burst of energy. If somebody had woken him up this morning and said he’d have to entertain somebody today, he would’ve told them to go screw themselves — but that would’ve been before he’d known it was Cas.

‘Did Jo… tell you anything else?’

He doesn’t want to come right out and ask what he’s  _ really _ trying to find out, but he can’t trust Jo not to have blabbed everything. She already sent the guy here with soup, for Christ’s sake — it’s not that great of a stretch to imagine she would’ve spilled the whole story to drum up pity.

It’s not like Dean’s  _ embarrassed _ to have a messed-up ticker, but that’s something personal — something he’d prefer to talk to Cas about himself.

Shooting a look in Cas’s direction, he sees the guy give a slight shake of his head.

‘She was under the impression you might appreciate the company.’

Despite himself, Dean gives a laugh. It’s a weird feeling — he’s spent days afraid to breathe too deeply in case he sets his heart off again, and making a sound of such unadulterated pleasure is a rare treat. Maybe it’s a sign he’s getting better.

‘She ain’t wrong there.’

He sets the kettle on the stove and turns on the heat. While he waits, the microwave beeps twice to remind him about the soup. With a soft swear, he moves over to the unit and pops it open before remembering he needs a spoon to stir it, none of which are clean.

‘Here. Allow me.’

Cas is behind him in an instant, taking up what little space is left in the tiny kitchenette, and he seems to leach warmth from where he stands. It’s hard not to gravitate towards him, when Dean’s been turning into a popsicle in his shitty unheated apartment for days.

With a hand at Dean’s elbow, Cas steers him out of the kitchen, and motions him towards the couch.

‘You’re not well,’ he says. ‘I can take care of this.’

A little reluctant to let Castiel take over, Dean nonetheless retreats to the living area and sinks into the couch, wrapping himself up in the blankets strewn there. He sits in the corner of the seat, facing towards the kitchenette, and tucks his chin into the folds of the blanket as he watches Cas go.

Castiel does some dishes — he washes a spoon first, and after stirring the soup, he heats it for a little longer — then clears away the empty takeout boxes on the counter from days ago. When the microwave dings, he decants the soup into a bowl, drops a spoon in, and brings it over to Dean.

His smile is a little self-conscious, like he’s a little thrown off by looking after someone, but it’s warm and genuine enough.

Dean decides it’s kind of nice to let Castiel putter about, even if it takes a while to get over the humiliation of having a hot guy clean up his mess. He’s lived on his own for most of his adulthood and when he gets sick — whether it’s just a cold, or the heart thing — he’s the only one around to do chores. Or not do them, generally speaking.

This probably isn’t Cas’s idea of a good time, but he makes a quick work of cleaning things, and by the time he’s almost done the kettle’s whistling so he takes it off the heat and brews the tea.

Dean takes his tea with sugar — and cream, usually, although he opts to go without when he remembers the stuff in the refrigerator has probably seen better days — and Cas drinks his with honey. Dean doesn’t know why, but that preference makes him smile; it makes him want to know all sorts of other things about him, like how he takes his eggs in the morning, and which side of the bed he sleeps on.

Which is not really something he should be thinking about. He pushes it to the back of his mind and cradles the mug in his hands; the soup is long-gone, the bowl cold, but the tea’s helping thaw some more of the chill from his fingers.

Castiel seems to be clinging to the warmth of his own drink just as avidly, knuckles white against the red glaze of his cup. He still hasn’t taken his trench coat off.

‘Sorry about the cold,’ Dean finds himself blurting. ‘I don’t use the heat too much in the year since it’s expensive to run, and then I don’t find out it’s broken until it’s too late to do anything about it. The super’s…’

_ Useless, slow, on vacation. Take your pick. _ Dean could put in a request for a fix today and it probably wouldn’t get looked at until February, in any case.

‘I could have a look at it, if you want.’

Castiel offers it so casually, so easily, that Dean’s momentarily taken aback. Last weekend he seemed like he couldn’t get away fast enough, and now he’s offering to do home repairs? What gives?

‘You don’t need to—’ Dean protests.

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

Off on a task, at least, it means Cas is no longer just awkwardly hovering in the living room, like he’s afraid to get comfortable. Embarrassing and all as it is to have him inspecting the apartment to find the radiator, he seems at least  _ somewhat  _ competent at what he’s doing, and again Dean allows himself to lazily watch him scurry about at his task.

‘Where are the heat controls?’ Castiel asks, slipping out of his trench coat and suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

He has nice arms; Dean forces himself to look away. 

‘Thermostat’s by the door. Good luck, though. Even when the super fixes it, it doesn’t stay fixed too long.’

Cas gives him a look that  _ might _ be cocky, but he’s gone before Dean can dwell on it long. A moment later the heat kicks on, and the characteristic gurgling sound rings out from the radiator — the one where it sounds like the damn thing is going to explode. Cas doesn’t seem bothered, though; he lets it do its thing and returns to the living area, patting his hand over the surface of the radiator.

‘Did you try bleeding it?’ he asks, touching the top of the radiator, then the bottom.

Dean looks at him blankly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Bleeding the air out,’ Cas explains, as if that clears everything up. ‘Old systems like this run on hot water, and sometimes air bubbles get trapped in the radiators and they stop circulating properly. You’re supposed to bleed them at the start of the season.’

Dean gives a shrug.

‘You got me. I just live here.’

He expects exasperation from Castiel, but instead the guy laughs.

‘Ten to one, you need to bleed them,’ Cas says. ‘If it doesn’t work, I can run out and get you a space heater.’

Dean opens his mouth to protest but Cas is already gone, marching into the bathroom to check the radiator in there.

‘It’s probably this one,’ Castiel calls. ‘It’s not heating up at all. Do you mind if I check your bedroom?’

It takes Dean a moment to consider whether his room is fit for human habitation, but he figures Cas won’t judge him for the dirty laundry and unmade bed — besides, the desire for working heat is stronger than his shame.

‘Go ahead.’

He tries not to think about Cas in his private space, stepping over his clothes, looking at his stuff. He busies himself instead with his tea, still hot enough that it almost hurts his lips, and sinks into his cocoon of blankets.

Castiel returns in under a minute, apparently unperturbed by whatever horrors he saw in Dean’s room.

‘Bedroom’s blocked up too,’ he announces. He marches over to the thermostat and turns the heat off; the gurgling sound promptly dies off. ‘This shouldn’t take too long, but it might get messy. Do you have an old towel I can use?’

Cas doesn’t just  _ fix _ the damn heat — he shows Dean how, illustrating first how to tell which ones have air bubbles in them, then where to find the little slot that the air gets bled out of, and how to use the key to open it up.

Within a half-hour the heat’s working again, and Dean’s so happy he could  _ kiss _ Cas. Understandably, he opts not to.

‘Thanks, man,’ he says, slumping back into his spot on the couch. He doesn’t need the blankets anymore, so he shoves them haphazardly onto the floor. ‘I owe you.’

Cas gives a noncommittal shrug. He takes a seat on the far end of the couch; he rolls his sleeves down, but at least he doesn’t need to put his coat and scarf back on.

‘It’d be warmer if you hung some drapes,’ he says, pointing to the empty curtain pole with the pathetic string of lights blinking on and off along the length of it. ‘Poorly-insulated rooms can lose up to—’

He cuts himself off, as though he’s just realised what he’s saying. Dean tries to keep the smile from cracking across his lips, but it’s a losing battle.

‘Were you a super in another life?’ Dean asks. ‘You know a lot about this stuff.’

Cas huffs out a sigh and rubs at the back of his neck.

‘Not quite. I… pick things up, I suppose. You never know when something might be useful.’

Dean gives a thoughtful nod. He’d say he’s the same, but it’s mostly just cars that he’s any good with. He guesses being handy around the house isn’t all that different from maintaining a car, although his old man certainly had more to teach him about one than the other. He had to figure out how to do laundry all by his lonesome.

Where he sits, Castiel licks his lips, and Dean muses idly that he does that a lot. It’s not a  _ bad _ thing, but it draws attention to them and their soft pink colour, and the prominent shape of them. They stand out against the dark stubble across his jaw.

Dean looks away.

It always seems to be like that. They get along great, and then Dean starts getting ahead of himself and thinking about Cas  _ that way _ and winds up ruining things. When he dares himself to shoot a look in Cas’s direction, he finds the guy watching him guardedly.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Cas says. ‘I understand if it’s too personal.’

‘What, like, red-light, green-light?’ Dean snorts.

Blankly, Castiel looks at him. It takes a second for him to remember, at which point his eyes crinkle in a smile like he’s just finally caught onto a joke.

‘Sure. Like that.’

Dean gives a shrug.

‘Shoot.’

It takes Castiel a little while to straighten his words out, like he’s figuring out the most tactful way to say it. He seems to do that a lot, too — pause and think, to make sure what he wants to say comes out precisely how he intends it. He’s nothing like Dean, in that respect.

‘You were out of work for a while,’ Cas says, eventually. ‘Are you all right?’

_ Ah. _ There it is — the inevitable. It’s not that Dean  _ minds _ being asked when it’s a pretty logical thing to be curious about, and he’s been living with it for so long now that he’s more than used to it coming up, but sometimes he wishes it didn’t have to be such a big deal.

Not that Cas is making a big deal of it, exactly, but it’s one of those things; like Meg, with whatever makes her need that cane and tires her out easily, it’s something she’s probably used to people getting kind of weird about.

‘I’m not dying or anything,’ Dean says. He chuckles, but Castiel doesn’t smile back at him. ‘Um, it’s a heart thing — I’ve had it since I was little. It’s this thing where your heart doesn’t fill when it beats like, and it can’t get the blood around like it should. It went away when I was a kid, but then in high school I, uh. Kinda got electrocuted.’

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

‘It’s cool, though,’ Dean blurts. ‘Like I said, I’m not dying. I just need to watch the caffeine and keep an eye on if I’m getting too excited. So, easy on the roller coasters and energy drinks. Terrible, I know.’

He’s trying to lighten the mood, but Cas’s watching him in that guarded way again, and  _ damn it _ if he’s going to be weird about it…

But instead of cringing away like he’s afraid he’ll somehow catch it, or giving Dean  _ The Look _ like he’s some pitiful stray, Cas wets his lips and cocks his head to the side.

‘How did you get electrocuted?’

Dean snorts. It’s not that Cas is  _ tactless, _ but it’s not the question most people choose to lead with.

‘Would you think it was cool if I said I was saving somebody’s life?’

‘Oh?’ Cas says. ‘How did that come about?’

Sighing, Dean leans back in his seat, throwing an arm out along the back of the couch. His hand is close enough that he could touch Cas if he wanted to, and it’s tempting as hell.

‘There was this guy trimming a tree down the street from where I lived. He hit one of the powerlines and got knocked clean off his ladder — I guess it was kind of dumb, but I ran over to try to move him out of the way and wound up getting hit with the loose cable. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in hospital.’

He hazards a glance in Cas’s direction. The guy’s watching him intently, not quite horrified but certainly interested.

‘You said you were in high school?’

‘Yeah,’ Dean says, with a nod. ‘Docs said I was lucky I didn’t die, but I hardly even remember it. Got a sick scar on my shoulder to show for it, though.’

It’s pretty silly, when he stops to think about it — telling Castiel this now, like it’s something to brag about. It’s not like he’s never gotten mileage out of it with girls  _ and _ guys, telling them about how he rushed into action without thinking, how he could have been killed.

They’re not teenagers, though, and Cas isn’t some wide-eyed mark at a bar. He’s just a guy who needed a fake boyfriend for a night, and happened to wind up choosing Dean.

Dean clears his throat and looks away, feeling like an idiot. He doesn’t know what he was expecting.

He wonders if this is the lull where Castiel will announce he’s leaving, and Dean will grapple with the desire to ask him to stay but ultimately chicken out in the end. He’s almost —  _ almost _ — about to cut his losses and announce that he should be getting some rest, when he feels Castiel nudge his knee.

‘I’m glad you didn’t die,’ Cas says, with just a hint of a wry smile. ‘It would’ve made it difficult to ask you out on a real date.’

Dean’s so busy reeling at Castiel’s morbid attempt at humour that he  _ almost _ doesn’t catch what he just said.

And then he does.

‘Oh,’ Dean fumbles. ‘You mean. A date with me?’

Cas nods, and his cheeks have gone pinkish and  _ damn, _ he’s gorgeous when he’s embarrassed.

‘I understand if you’re not interested. All the business with the office party was probably enough of an ordeal—’

‘Cas.’

Dean tries to keep from sounding like too much of a giddy idiot, swinging for something casual. Cas’s hand is still at his knee and he wants so badly to take it, but he doesn’t.

‘You’re forgetting I was the one who thought we were going on a date to begin with,’ he says.

The flush darkens across Cas’s cheeks again and  _ again _ Dean can’t help thinking how gorgeous it is, and he almost gives in to the urge to cover Cas’s hand with his own before suddenly it’s gone from his knee, taking the warmth with it.

Gruffly, Castiel clears his throat. 

‘I— I still feel terrible about that. Meg thought she was doing me a favour asking you out — it’s kind of funny, she was the one who convinced me—’

Whatever he’d been about to say, he catches himself with a shake of his head.

‘I… know you might not be up to going out any time soon, and you probably have to catch up at work when you’re better, but… whenever you’re free, I’d like to take you out for coffee sometime. If you would still like to.’

It’s tempting to make Castiel sweat, the way he did Dean not even a week ago when this whole thing began. When the thought crosses Dean’s mind, though, he can’t bring himself to be mean like that. The misunderstanding with Meg and the office party — that’s all water under the bridge. And anyways, it’s not like he didn’t have a good time.

It’s not like Dean isn’t the one who secretly wanted  _ more. _

He can feel a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and it only grows as he sees the expectant look on Castiel’s face — like he barely dares to hope for a  _ yes. _ Dean doesn’t know when Cas changed his mind about the two of them, but whatever happened, he’s glad for it.

Tentatively, Dean reaches out a hand and plucks at the collar of Cas’s shirt. It’s a little crumpled from all his fussing with the radiators; Dean strokes the material absently, smoothing out the crinkles.

‘I’d love to, Cas.’


	7. Castiel

Castiel wouldn’t have believed he’d gone through with it if he hadn’t been there to witness it himself; one minute Dean had been telling him about how he’d almost died, the next the compulsion to ask him out had been so strong that he hadn’t been able to fight it anymore.

The opening had seemed perfect at the time — and then Dean hadn’t reacted, and when he finally  _ had _ he’d been so stunned that Castiel had been sure he’d misread things, that Dean wasn’t really interested in him at all.

He’s on a high when he gets home, having left Dean’s place with mutual promises to keep in touch with one another and choose a date when Dean’s fully recovered. It’s hard to tamp down the anticipation now that Castiel has gotten over himself long enough to take the plunge, but he knows he has to be patient. Dean isn’t going to get better overnight, not with how pale he’d been — although Castiel suspects having the heat running again in his place may help things somewhat — and it’s almost Christmas, so the timing is terrible.

But none of that really matters. The point is, Castiel asked Dean out, and instead of that old feeling of squirming dread he always gets when met with the prospect of opening up to somebody new, all he feels is  _ excitement. _

* * *

Christmas seems to loom out of nowhere; Dean recovers enough to get back to work, but between the holiday rush and picking up shifts to make up for his time off, he barely gets a spare minute. Castiel tries to give him space as needed, but it’s always Dean sending him quick texts whenever he gets a spare minute, always Dean apologising for being so busy all the time.

Dean gets some time off over the holidays, but that’s a no-go, too — he’s headed back home to Lawrence for Christmas, and even if he speaks a little grudgingly about seeing his father, he’s excited about spending time with his little brother, and he talks about Sam like he’s the salt of the earth.

The twenty-fifth comes, and Castiel spends it with Meg, watching old movies and cooking together, and even though neither of them are particularly skilled in the kitchen, their dinner doesn’t come out half-bad.

Dean texts around noon to wish Castiel — and Meg — a Merry Christmas; they make a tentative date to meet up soon.

Once dinner has been devoured, and Meg snores lightly on the couch beside Castiel, a movie playing on the TV that he’s only half-watching, his phone rings.  _ Jimmy Novak _ comes up on the screen, and with a lurch of apprehension he hits the button to silence the call.

When the notification buzzes through a few minutes later to let him know he has a new voicemail, he can’t bring himself to listen to it.

* * *

‘C’mon, Clarence. It’ll be  _ fun.’ _

They’re in the middle of a brightly-lit grocery store, and somehow from the way Meg says it, it’s like she’s a sadist who’s just invited her next victim to come get their teeth pulled. Castiel has known her long enough not to fall for it.

‘Getting drunk and ringing in the New Year with our coworkers,’ Castiel says, pausing dramatically to pretend he’s considering it. ‘Hm, I’m not sure that’s what I’d call a good time.’

‘It’s not everybody from the office,’ Meg counters. ‘Just Anna and her friends, Gabriel, probably Rowena… besides, you had a good enough time with them at the Christmas party.’

_ That’s because Dean was there. _

Castiel keeps that thought to himself.

He knows he’ll probably wind up going, anyway; if Meg is going to be there, then it’s likely better than any plans he might make for himself, although he  _ had _ been looking forward to spending the night alone at home with a bottle of wine and a movie.

‘I’m not saying no.’

Meg sighs.

‘You’re not saying yes, either. It’s fine, Clarence. You can tell me if you and Loverboy have plans.’

Castiel’s stomach flips, not unpleasantly. They’re actually finally going to get their date after Dean finishes work on New Year’s Eve, so it’s not entirely far from the truth — but somehow, spending the biggest night of the year with a guy he hasn’t even officially gone on a first date with feels too much like jumping in the deep end.

Besides, he’s sure Dean has plans of his own for the night.

‘We’re going for coffee,’ he says, with a shrug. ‘That’s all.’

‘Mhmm.’

She tosses a can of peaches into the cart and rounds on Castiel with an arched eyebrow.

‘You were giddy as a schoolgirl when you called me up to tell me all about it. Something tells me it’s not going to stop at coffee.’

Castiel throws his eyes to the sky. At Meg’s behest, he pushes the cart onwards, towards the dry goods aisle.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered the potential outcome of his first real date with Dean. It seems odd to be going for an actual outing with him when he’s been to the man’s apartment already a grand total of three times,  _ and _ introduced him to his coworkers as his boyfriend, but perhaps the unconventionality of it all is what makes it easier to go along with. It’s not a typical trajectory for a relationship, and for once Castiel is  _ relatively _ comfortable to let things be, and see where they go.

‘If it means you’ll leave me alone, I’ll pencil it in,’ he offers, pausing to let Meg add a box of cereal to the cart. ‘No promises, though.’

She gives him a playful punch on the arm. It hurts more than he’d care to admit.

‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘That’s all I ask.’

* * *

The venue Dean picked out isn’t Harvelle’s by a long stretch, not that it really matters — and Dean had been pretty adamant about not wanting to be around his coworkers on a date. Castiel can’t exactly say he blames him; situations reversed, he could see himself wanting to keep his romantic life  _ far _ from his prying coworkers.

It’s ironic, really. That’s the crux of what got them into this situation, and what ultimately led to them going on this date to begin with. He supposes, in a way, that he should be thankful to Anna, and Gabe, and everyone else who played a hand in the meddling. If not for them, the fabricated boyfriend would never have arisen. If not for Meg, he would have gone to the Christmas party alone.

The coffee shop Dean invited him to is one of those chain places, but it’s nice inside, and the seasonal decorations add a pleasant touch — snowflake adornments on the windows, miniature Christmas trees everywhere, and a mesh of string lights winking happily overhead, covering the whole ceiling.

He devotes about ten seconds to taking the place in, scanning over the various patrons, before his eyes land — with a leap of his heart — on Dean, squirreled away in a quiet corner.

His attention is on his phone, his head bowed slightly over it. He’s not quite smiling, but his expression is relaxed, and he has a hand at his hair, fingers raking absently through it. His stubble’s filled out a little since Castiel last saw him, lending him a rugged sort of look. Castiel thinks it goes nicely with the red and black flannel he’s wearing.

And just like that, with Castiel not so subtly standing in the doorway and studying Dean, the man looks up. His eyes widen, and that not-quite smile breaks across his lips, and suddenly he’s on his feet.

‘Cas. Hey!’

There’s the span of a coffee shop between them but Dean’s voice carries, even softly as he’d spoken, and it’s warm and rich as it curls against Castiel’s ear.

Castiel crosses the space. When he gets to Dean’s table, he reflexively offers a hand to shake — and just as he’s kicking himself for being so formal, Dean clasps his arm, not his hand, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

It’s not what Castiel was expecting, and it catches him off-guard so abruptly that he forgets the social script for moments like this. In a way, it throws him back to the night of the Christmas party when Dean had done such a good job at pretending they were close; Castiel had been hopeless out of his depth then, and it had been all he could do to follow along in Dean’s footsteps.

‘You look better,’ Castiel says, before he can stop himself.

He’d intended to say Dean looked  _ good _ — but that had somehow gotten muddled in with thinking about how  _ pale _ Dean had been the last time they saw one another, and the relief that he seems to have bounced back.

‘I mean,’ he blurts, ‘you look good. Great, even. You look fantastic.’

_ For the love of God, stop speaking. _

He shuts up abruptly, willing himself not to meet Dean’s eye as he begins the process of unbuttoning his coat and unwrapping his scarf.

Dean, however, simply chuckles as he returns to his seat.

‘Thanks. Y’know, that soup you brought me couldn’t’ve come at a better time. Perked me right up.’

Castiel slips his coat off and drapes it over the back of his chair. With a shrug, he settles into the seat.

‘I was merely the messenger.’

There’s a soft smile on Dean’s lips when he finally dares himself to look at the man; his eyes are crinkled at the corners.

‘Well, okay,’ he says. ‘Wasn’t really the  _ soup _ that made me feel better…’

When he trails off, he leaves Castiel hanging on in wait of whatever else is next. He doesn’t fill in the blanks — and it hits Castiel all at once just what Dean is implying. It wasn’t the soup, and as obtuse as Castiel might be when it comes to romance these days, he assumes it has nothing to do with fixing the heat, either. Which means…

‘Oh.’

A look flashes across Dean’s face, and he can’t quite fathom it. Second-hand embarrassment over Castiel taking too long to figure it out, maybe. If so, he’s in for a lot of disappointment — all of this is still so new.

Castiel tries for a smile and gestures to the counter.

‘What are you having? I’ll order.’

Dean opts for a decaf americano; the choice rings in Castiel’s head as he makes his way up to order. With anyone else, he might have been curious about why they went with decaffeinated — why they even picked a coffee shop for their date in that case — but with Dean, he already knows why. It’s a little tidbit of information that he already has about Dean, and it’s something personal, and Dean  _ trusted _ him with it.

He gets his usual flat white for himself, and the decaf for Dean, and while he’s waiting for his order he scans over the pastries and baked goods on offer. There’s everything from stodgy cinnamon rolls to wholegrain muffins, and nothing particularly catches his eye. While he’s browsing, though, one of the baristas transfers a fresh tray of baked goods into the top of the display case. They’re newly made, and they look warm and irresistible. When the barista comes back with his drinks, he picks something out, and ferries the order back to the table.

‘I didn’t know if you were hungry,’ he says, setting Dean’s coffee in front of him. He hesitates before placing the plate on the table, too. ‘I… got this for you.’

‘I love pie!’ Dean says. ‘How’d you know?’

It’s just a miniature apple pie with a pastry lattice over the top — but it had reminded Castiel of a time weeks and weeks ago, when Dean had pushed a free slice of apple pie on him with his coffee because, quote-unquote,  _ The pies here are the freakin’ best. _

‘I had an inkling,’ Castiel says, barely holding back a smile as he takes his seat. ‘You were… pretty insistent that I try one at Harvelle’s. You were right, by the way. It was delicious.’

He’s not really sure why he did it — whether it was some cheesy attempt at calling back to something nice Dean had done for him, or if he just wanted to make Dean smile. Either way, he doesn’t know what he was expecting to get out of it.

What he  _ isn’t _ expecting is the flush of heat creeping across Dean’s freckled cheeks, or the way he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck, like he’s forgotten how he fits inside his own skin.

‘You remembered that?’

Castiel shrugs.

‘I’ll admit, it never occurred to me that you were showing me any sort of special treatment,’ he says. ‘Meg was the one who suggested you weren’t just doing it to be nice.’

Across from him, Dean gives a sudden laugh. His green eyes twinkle, bringing out the crow’s feet etched into the corners.

‘And I thought I was being too obvious with the flirting. Guess my skills are a little rusty.’

‘No. Not at all.’

Castiel clasps his hands around his cup, looking down at the surface of his drink. There’s a standard tulip drawn into the foam, but it’s without flourish. He wonders what art Dean would have made for him today, if they’d still had the coffee shop counter between them.

‘I haven’t…  _ dated _ in a while,’ he admits, looking up to meet Dean’s eye. ‘I wasn’t really looking out for it.’

Dean uses the edge of his fork to cut off a piece of the pie. He lifts it to his mouth, and pauses.

‘How long is a while?’

Castiel almost says  _ five years _ out of habit, but it’s more complicated than that. Five years since Thomas left, yes — but thinking even further back to when they were initially seeing each other, he has the sad realisation that it’s been close to a decade since he last went on a date.

Dean’s waiting, expectantly, and Castiel can’t help thinking he’s probably imagining something like  _ months, _ not  _ years. _

‘A  _ while,’ _ Castiel says — guardedly. ‘If anybody’s rusty here, it’s probably me.’

Thoughtfully, Dean chews through his mouthful. When he’s done, he washes it down with a gulp of coffee.

‘So we’re both a little out of practice. We’ll figure it out as we go along.’

It’s not an unpleasant thought, Castiel has to admit: striking out into relatively uncharted territory with someone new, someone who’s as willing to learn as he is.

There’s a crumb of pastry on Dean’s lip; as if on reflex, his tongue flits out to catch it, and Castiel finds himself watching. It takes a second after he registers the thought that he should look away before his brain actually  _ obeys, _ and he busies himself by studying the minimalist art above Dean’s head.

It’s some abstract piece, blocks of primary colours with a splatter of purple across the canvas. It’s not exactly to his taste; he looks at it only long enough to be sure that Dean’s mouth is closed again, then moves his eyes down to meet Dean’s.

‘How were the holidays?’ he asks. ‘You said you went back home, right?’

That’s a socially-acceptable topic, he figures. Something easy to start out with.

Dean rolls his shoulders and slumps back against the plump cream padding of his seat.

‘Eh, the usual. Sammy’s doin’ great, though. He’s got a thing for this chick he’s been volunteering with — Eileen, I think? He said she’s a hardass, probably isn’t even into him, but I told him to go for it anyways.’

It’s a pleasure to see the way his face lights up when he talks about his brother. By contrast, though, he’s pretty quick to deflect from talk of family. Castiel mentally marks that off as a no-go, thumbing around the rim of his coffee cup.

‘You said your brother’s studying… law?’

Dean gives a nod.

‘Yeah, almost all done. Everything goes to plan, he’ll be taking the bar the year after next. He’s nervous, but he knows his shit. And he’s  _ good.  _ Heart’s in the right place, y’know? All that time away in California, and I was worried it’d change him, but he just…’

He trails off, lips pulling into a wry smile. After a beat, he looks away.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Guess I got a little carried away. Just proud of him, y’know? He took all the shit dumped into his lap, and he got away. Made something of himself. More than I ever did.’

There’s something slightly strained in his voice, in the set of his jaw. He’s smiling, yes, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe he tried to  _ make something of himself, _ as he says of his brother, but never succeeded.

Castiel wets his lips. He can’t entirely say he didn’t reach the goals he set for himself — even if life sometimes got in the way of his trajectory — but he knows a thing or two about being the black sheep of the family.

‘What did you study in college?’ he asks. ‘I don’t think you ever mentioned.’

At this, Dean bursts out with a chuckle. At least this time when he meets Castiel’s bemused glance, there’s genuine mirth in his eyes.

‘College?’ He makes a sound, sort of like a snort, and throws his eyes toward the sky. ‘Not me, man. Sammy got all the brains in the family.’

Embarrassment rushes through Castiel, hot and sultry. He’d been so sure Dean had said something about college, and messing up on that detail makes him feel terrible, like he’s a bad listener — or worse, like he just assumed everybody goes to college, likely making Dean feel bad about the fact that he didn’t in the process. Not that it’s anything to be ashamed of; Castiel might have grown up in a household where grades were everything, but he’s far from one to say his upbringing was wholesome.

He hides the heat of his cheeks by ducking his head and sluicing coffee down his throat.

When he chances a look up at Dean, the man’s eyes are turned toward the window, corners still crinkled with the imprint of his laughter, albeit faded now. Maybe it’s paranoia — or projection — but Castiel can’t help feeling like he’s probably regretting saying yes to this date. Maybe they’re a bad fit; maybe five years was too soon to start trying again.

Castiel wonders if it’s too early to beg off with some excuse. If he feigned a call from Meg, it would probably be obvious as hell, but then Dean might be glad for the pretext to duck out. Maybe it would be better for both of them.

Except…

He sets his cup down, a little too hard, and fixes his gaze on Dean.

‘You said you took acting classes,’ he says, shrewdly. ‘In college. I distinctly remember that.’

A blank look crosses over Dean’s face. For what  _ feels _ like a lifetime — but couldn’t be longer than a few seconds — Castiel wonders if maybe he got it wrong after all, or somehow got it mixed up. But then Dean’s cheeks tinge pink, and he lifts a hand to scrub down his face.

‘I did that, huh?’

‘You did,’ Castiel replies. Despite himself, he can feel the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘You mean to say your theatrical skills were exaggerated?’

‘Hey!’ Dean drops his hand, looking genuinely wounded by the suggestion. ‘I wasn’t…  _ lying. _ I was in theatre in high school! And you were in a tight spot, and  _ hell, _ even if it wasn’t a real date I was into you and—’

Abruptly, his voice drops off, like he’s said too much. And then — graciously — a smile crosses his lips.

‘You aren’t even mad, are you?’

Idly, Castiel runs the tip of his finger over the brim of his cup, catching the foam from the edge of it.

‘So you’re into me, are you?’ he says, tilting his head to the side. ‘Interesting.’

With an elusive smile, he pops the tip of his finger into his mouth and sucks the foam right off of it. Dean’s green eyes land on his for a moment before dropping, almost inevitably, down to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PROGRESS!


	8. Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say a big thank you to the folks who've been reading this humble lil story, and an extra special thanks to those who've left comments. Writing for a new fandom is... daunting, to say the least, and you've all made it feel so worthwhile to keep chipping away at this fic.
> 
> We're getting close to the end now! I'm hashing out the final outline, but we've probably got 2 - 3 chapters tops left after this. I hope you enjoy!

They spend so long talking that Dean’s coffee goes cold, and Cas leaps up to get him another without being asked. While Cas is gone, Dean sits and picks at the apple pie in front of him, happily stuffing crumbs of the pastry into his mouth.

It’s not even a  _ good _ pie — the pastry is dry, and the filling tastes as though it probably came out of a tube rather than a real apple — but it’s the symbolism of it that matters. He’d happily eat a hundred more.

He sighs contentedly, licking a flake of pastry off his thumb, and rests his cheek in his hand. From here, he’s got a prime view of the window; it’s already so dark now, though, that he can’t see outside at all against the glare of the coffee shop’s lights. He turns his head instead to look about the place, at the people dining, chatting, laughing at each other’s jokes. He has to twist fully to see as far as the counter area, but it’s worth it when his eyes land on Cas.

There’s a little bit of a line, so the guy’s waiting behind two other people. He has a hand in his pocket, hip popped to the side while he waits. For somebody so rigid, sometimes he looks so  _ effortlessly _ casual.

Maybe it’s dishonest to stare when Castiel doesn’t know he’s watching, but Dean does it anyway; and, chasing a sudden whim, he grabs his phone from the top of the table and sends a quick text message.

It would be so easy to miss the way Cas perks up when he sees Dean’s name on his phone’s screen, but Dean catches it. Dean can even see the way his brow furrows as he tries to understand the message he’s just been sent.

_ Have you seen the cute guy standing on line? _

Looking up, Cas glances around. He’s the only dude in the line — there’s a teenage girl and a yuppie mom type in front of him. It should be pretty obvious who Dean is talking about, and yet…

_ You’re going to have to be more specific. _

Cas’s reply comes through quickly, and that frown never leaves his face. With an exasperated sigh, Dean fires off a response.

_ It’s you, dufus. _

It’s worth it, if only to watch the heat pool across Cas’s cheeks; the tiny, shy smile that spreads across his lips, before splitting into a grin of straight, perfect white teeth. His head whips around as he searches their table out, and when his eyes meet Dean’s he freezes for a fraction of a second, the flush of his cheeks creeping down to the collar of the shirt he wears under his sweater.

He glances away then, ducking his head like he’s trying in vain to hide. On the table, Dean’s phone buzzes.

_ Did anyone ever tell you that you have terrible taste? _

Dean snorts. Always with the dry sense of humour; it’s no wonder Cas and Meg get along so great.

_ What can I say? I’m a sucker for blue eyes. _

It’s almost Cas’s turn, so Dean sets his phone aside for now. He can make Cas blush some more when he gets back. It’s turning out to be his new favourite hobby.

* * *

It’s full dark by the time they get out, not that that’s much of an indication of the passing of time with winter in full-swing. Dean doesn’t have to go to work, though, and it’s still a couple hours before places close up for New Year’s Eve. They’ve got a little time to wander and take in the sights.

Dean’s never been one for wandering the city — he’s always preferred the open road and a box of cassette tapes — but he can’t fault it when he’s with Cas. They talk a little, and when the conversation tapers off, they stroll in comfortable silence side-by-side, headed for nowhere in particular.

In barely any time at all, the city will be transformed: once the bars and clubs open, the streets will teem with life. It’s quiet for now, just a few stragglers still hanging around, and the light pouring onto the sidewalks from the stores still open gives the city a homely sort of feel, like something off of a greeting card.

‘You know I hate to be predictable,’ Dean says, ‘but you got any big plans for tonight?’

He’s not angling for anything. It’s purely curiosity, since he can’t really see Cas being the type of guy who goes out clubbing into the small hours of the morning only to wake up the next day with a banging headache. 

Castiel gives a weary sigh.

‘Anna’s throwing a thing at her place and invited a few of us along from the office. Meg’s going, but I don’t know…’

The Christmas party was recent enough that Dean remembers Anna and remembers her well. She’d seemed nice, if a little overenthusiastic. It’s pretty obvious there are people at the office who actually  _ like _ Cas, even if he’s reluctant to let them in.

They come to a halt almost naturally, stopping in front of the window display at a department store. It’s a classic Christmas scene, with a huge tree and a fireplace. There are so many gifts under the tree Dean doesn’t even dare to try to count them all.

It’s not like any Christmas he’s ever had.

He rolls his shoulders and his neck, working out the stiffness brought on by the cold. An artificial fire roars in the fireplace, and it makes him all the colder just looking at it — but he’s not ready to head for home just yet.

‘You should go,’ he says, nudging Castiel’s elbow with his own. ‘You had a good time at the party, right?’

When he looks over, Cas’s eyes are fixed on the window display, but in that way that suggests he’s not really seeing it. Whatever he’s thinking about, he seems to be a million miles away.

Dean gives him a minute.

‘I’m just not that big on New Year,’ Cas says, eventually. ‘Not anymore, I guess.’

There’s a story there, Dean can feel it, but there’s this weird tension about Cas, about the straight line of his shoulders, like he’s about to wall himself off at the slightest provocation. Dean thinks back to that drink they shared at his place when they still hardly knew each other, and Cas’d clammed up when Dean had asked about how somebody like him was still single.

Maybe Castiel is a little stuffy sometimes, a little awkward, but he’s so beautiful he could make a guy weep — and once he opens up he’s funny, and he’s sweet, and he puts other people first without even really thinking about it. Somebody like that is single, there’s a good reason for it. That reason usually has a name, and a history.

Dean hums in understanding and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, leaning his head back to look at the angel on top of the Christmas tree. It’s so opulent it’s almost gaudy, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the gold on it was real.

‘Tell you what. You go to Anna’s thing tonight, and if it sucks, text me and I’ll call you so you can duck out. Sound good?’

Casually, he turns his head just slightly to the side to see Cas looking at him. He can imagine his blue eyes wide in that inquisitive way of his, like he’s still learning this whole socialising thing for the first time.

‘No offense, but you’ve already covered for me more than enough.’

Dean snorts. When he looks at Cas, the guy’s head is tilted in curiosity.

‘Dude. I still owe you for fixing the heat. Hell, I’ll come pick you up myself if you ask me to.’

And maybe he  _ is _ angling a little this time — hoping, secretly, that Cas will leap at the chance to use him as an out, so they can see each other again.

Worth a shot, right?

Objectively, Dean knows he could just ask Cas if he’d like to come over to Jo’s tonight — it wouldn’t exactly be  _ weird, _ now that they’ve officially had their first date — but he has that sinking feeling that the direct approach will scare the guy off. There’s every chance he won’t hear from Cas tonight, but the sliver of a possibility that he  _ will _ is worth it.

Cas wets his lips and, after a long moment, nods his head ever so slightly.

‘Okay. I’ll go, and if it’s terrible you can be my knight in shining armour. If you’re sure you don’t mind.’

A shiver rolls its way up Dean’s spine at Cas’s words. It’s not unpleasant.

‘No big deal,’ he says. ‘Happy to help.’

The smile that Cas flashes is heavy with gratitude.

‘Well, in that case, I should probably go mentally prepare myself. Can I walk you home?’

They went the long way about things in their wandering, but they aren’t too far from Dean’s place. He kind of rues it, in a way. He’d been having such a good time that inevitable as it is that things would have to end, he’s just not ready to part ways.

They take their time, though, as they make their way down the block. They’re close enough to each other as they talk that Dean can get away with bumping his shoulder into Cas’s from time to time without it seeming intentional. Cas, for his part, doesn’t flinch away.

‘So what are  _ your _ plans?’ Cas asks, as they round a corner. ‘Hopefully they’re a little more exciting than getting dragged along to a coworker’s party by your long-suffering best friend.’

‘Drinks with Jo. Since she’s both my best friend  _ and _ my coworker, I think I got you beat.’

That drags a chuckle out of Castiel.

‘Maybe it’s time to admit we’re getting boring in our old age.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Dean retorts, putting on his cheesiest grin. ‘I get to be a spry twenty-something for another couple weeks.’

Cas groans, clutching a hand to his chest as if he’s just taken an arrow to the ribs.

‘Oh, now I  _ really _ feel old. Don’t come crying to me when you wake up at thirty with a bad back.’

It’s all too easy for Dean to clap a hand on Cas’s shoulder — a friendly gesture, nothing conspicuous. If just that little bit of physical contact sets Dean’s heart pounding secretly, Cas doesn’t need to know.

They come in view of Dean’s place sooner than he’d like, and short of physically dragging his feet to get there, there’s not a whole lot he can do to put it off. He stops at the doorstep out front and dawdles, leaning his shoulder against the brick wall.

‘You got a little time before you need to get home?’ he asks.

Cas wets his lips. His blue eyes flick towards the door, then land back on Dean. He looks, for a second, like he’s going to accept — and it’s embarrassing, frankly, that Dean’s heart leaps with hope at the possibility.

Like clockwork, though, Castiel gives the tiniest shake of his head.

‘I can’t,’ he says. ‘I want to, believe me. But if I have  _ any _ excuse, I’ll never make it to Anna’s tonight.’

It would probably take very little to get him to blow off the whole thing, and Dean’s sure Jo would forgive him for ditching her for a guy — eventually. He’s trying to be casual about the whole thing and take it at a moderate pace, though; tempting and all as it is, he ignores the urge.

‘Fair enough. Not about to invoke the wrath of Meg if she finds out I’m the reason you bailed.’

The corners of Cas’s mouth twitch, like he knows about that better than anyone else.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘She’d kick my ass, but you’d probably get a pass. For some strange reason, she seems to like you.’

Cockily, Dean tilts his head and gives Cas a grin.

‘Can you blame her? I’m adorable.’

He knows he’s pushing it — getting overly familiar with Cas, like they’ve known each other longer than they have. He counts it a win, though, when the guy doesn’t balk. When that little twitchy not-quite-smile blooms in full, like he can’t hold it in.

It’s gorgeous.  _ He’s _ gorgeous. Dean decides in a heartbeat that he’d like to kiss him. In the next heartbeat, he knows he won’t.

‘So,’ Dean says, tapping Cas companionably in the shoulder. ‘You think I can see you again?’

It’s exactly the sort of cheesy line he would tell himself  _ not _ to say to Castiel, but it comes out anyway. His cheeks warm up self-consciously; he acts like he doesn’t notice.

‘Yes,’ Cas says. All but blurts it out. ‘I— We could— I’ll call you when—’

He seems to be having a little trouble, so Dean opts to throw him a bone.

‘We’ll work something out. Get outta here already, all right? And Happy New Year, if I don’t talk to you before tonight.’

Cas gives a grateful nod. When he fidgets with the ends of his scarf, straightening them out, it seems to be more of an attempt to give his hands something to do, rather than out of any sort of need.

‘Happy New Year, Dean.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones) and [Tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com).


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